


What Comes Around

by Vathara



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: Acting, Adorkable, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Darwin Awards, Djinn Equip, Djinni & Genies, F/M, Gen, Ja'far facepalms, Kidnapping, Magic, Magic Revealed, Magic-Users, Married Couple, Martial Arts, Past Lives, Post-Canon Fix-It, Refuge in audacity, Reincarnation, Sinbad as a school principal, Swordfighting, Swords, Yes the whole school is insane, evil alchemists, troperrific
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-29 20:51:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 221,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5142077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vathara/pseuds/Vathara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alibaba’s life never gets easier. Even in another life. AKA, Magi canon looks like it's going to end up an incredible mess... and the bunnies decided they needed major fixit. As in, reborn in another world level of fixit. </p><p>...This is Magi. And Ugo's really, really smart.... ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which There is a Muchness of Punch...ing

**Author's Note:**

> Alibaba’s life never gets easier. Even in another life. (Magi not mine, darn it....) Also, this is a reincarnation fic that happens waaaaay after Magi canon, so there are spoilers. Lots of spoilers. Anything is fair game. Anything. 
> 
> Note, I'm still editing most of this and plan to work on it a lot more after NaNo. So there probably won't be more chapters up until December.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alibaba’s life never gets easier. Even in another life. (Magi not mine, darn it....) Also, this is a reincarnation fic that happens waaaaay after Magi canon, so there are spoilers. Lots of spoilers. Anything is fair game. Anything.  
> I also reserve the right to retcon canon if it goes too idiotically pear-shaped. This is a fixit fic!

_Sploosh_.

For a moment Alan Ryans could only gasp at the painful, painful cold, and try not to get any more of the failed attempt at punch in his mouth. Was that grape Jello, mixed in with what was supposed to be pink lemonade?

 _That’s the last time I walk under the Home Ec window. Ever_.

Why did they even _have_ Home Ec on the second floor? Couldn’t they spring for more plumbing than just the setup for the cafeteria kitchens? Wasn’t like Hancock High was anywhere cheap to go-

“Hey Dash, you didn’t look out the window first!” A hand the size of a baked ham waved, as the football quarterback attached grinned down. “Sorry ‘bout that! Oh man, what a mess....”  

Alan took a breath that tasted pinky-purple, and sloshed his soggy way away from the window. He didn’t think the guys up there had dumped out failed party punch on top of him on purpose; the laughter up there didn’t sound vicious enough for that. But nobody was taking a precious sliver of time out of their Friday afternoon party prep to help the new kid out, either.

 _Perfect end to a perfect day_.

It’d started with sleeping through his alarm, and dashing out the front door with no more breakfast than he could slap between two of Miss Tanya’s pieces of toast. Then he’d almost caught up to Morgan MacLea on the redhead’s walk to school, just in time to catch her curious, dark-lashed look at him. Which had resulted in blushing, and a horn-blaring jolt of adrenaline as he almost walked right in front of traffic.

 _Smooth, Alan. Real smooth_.

But he’d managed to get into school without killing himself, and made it to his homeroom just as the bell rang. Only to be told by the prim lady in red glasses whose name he hadn’t quite gotten yet that it wasn’t his homeroom... anymore.

_“Didn’t you get the email? Principal Cavins reassigned you.”_

To the Bio lab with Mr. Dzez- Zvezdi- damn it, he was going to get the biology teacher’s name down _eventually_.

 _Probably about the time I figure out why I wanted to hug the guy who invented the Death of a Thousand Paper Cuts_.

Alan just didn’t _do_ spontaneous hugs with people he’d never met before. Much less a prickly young Bio teacher who wore a blue Hancock sweatshirt two sizes too big, and used glares with the same devastating finesse as a sushi chef used fillet knives.

But looking into gray eyes, he’d wanted to toss caution to the wind and just glomp the guy. Because here was someone who _understood_.

He hadn’t, though. Fortunately. Way his luck ran, the guy would have karate-chopped him into bits and then charged him with harassment.

Anyway. Bio lab. Morgan’s homeroom. Which should have been all kinds of cool, if he could keep from spontaneously combusting every time she gave him one of those bird-quick glances. Or it would have been, if Principal Cavins hadn’t rewritten his _entire schedule_.

_“What? Why?”_

All things considered, Alan hadn’t really been surprised to find himself summarily booted into the principal’s office. He had been surprised that the violet-haired man was _smiling_ at him. Bright. Open. _Cheery_ , even.

Somehow, some way, he knew this was going to be a disaster.

_“I’m moving you into the Theater track.”_

...Yep. Definitely a disaster.

Alan liked to think that he wasn’t a cynic; just pragmatic. He was in Hancock High because he could probably get as good an education where his father wanted him to be as he could have where _he’d_ wanted to be: back in his hometown, well north of the Mason-Dixon line, where his mother had worked as an independent blogger and writer, met his dad whenever Silversmith Sr.’s legal business took him up north, and smiled her way through life until The Accident.

Which he was not going to think about. Not. At all.

He’d been doing fine on his own, damn it, just _fine_. He could cook, he could clean, the condo was paid for and he was balancing the budget left from his mom’s insurance well enough that Child Services had been tentatively coming around to the idea of just leaving him _alone_. Though if they’d had one clue about little Maria and her ragged band of street survivors, they’d have yanked him in so fast his sneakers would have been smoking on the sidewalk.

But they didn’t, and they hadn’t, and between his mother’s notes and Sister Thomasina’s careful dance with Immigration, he’d been pretty sure he’d had Maria and the other _ak’al-ab’_ on track to get refugee status. Until a month ago, when the world had suddenly flipped upside down and he’d wound up curled up on the floor, crying his heart out and so damn _hot_ , he’d been burning up....

Alan didn’t remember dialing 911. He had a bad feeling that he hadn’t; that Maria had used her key, and found him, and run for it after she’d called for help. When he’d come around more than a week later, he’d been in a Florida hospital, where a helpful nurse had told him everything would be fine, the fever had finally broken, and his father was coming to take him home.

 _Awkward_ didn’t even begin to cover it.

For now, he didn’t have the resources to get back North. For now, he couldn’t go home. So Alan planned to bide his time, keep in contact with Sister Thomasina by email, figure out some way to get a job without his father or his father’s legal wife finding out about it, and in the meantime keep up a somewhat friendly facade of someone grateful to be here, really. Which included not getting into trouble at school. No matter how insane the principal was. Even if being in the same room with the guy gave him the oddest swoops of hope and wariness down his nerves. He was going to stay _calm_. “Look, Mr. Cavins. My father set up that schedule, I don’t have any problems with it-”

“Then you should have.” The principal’s smile was just a little more sober. “There’s a reason I get all the new students up on stage at least once.”

_What, besides the embarrassing torture value?_

Though it hadn’t been nearly as embarrassing as it could have been. Sure, Principal Cavins had had a full assembly the first day, where he’d warned - er, _informed_ them that Hancock High had a strong theatrical arts program; everything from acting and dancing to electronics and SFX makeup. And that he was always on the lookout for new talent. But he’d only grabbed students a few at a time, during their free periods over the course of the first week, so Alan’s own personal nightmare had only played out in front of about twenty people. And Morgan.

Morgan had been _beautiful_.

Granted, from what he’d managed to pick up from the school grapevine so far, the MacLea family grew up on the dojo mats, and maybe breaking a pile of flaming bricks with one heel-strike was no big deal.

Then it had been Alan’s turn. Not up against one of the teachers, like the rest of his luckier classmates. No; he’d been shoved up on stage right in front of Principal Cavins himself. The guy whose last role in Hollywood had been the swashbuckling Sinbad the Sailor. With a sword in his hand.

 _This is a terrible idea_.

Which he’d tried to tell the guy, as the principal pulled violet-dyed hair back with a silver and leather tie and Alan tried not to drop heavy metal on his own foot. He’d have felt safer trying to jump over an alley with three annoyed gang-bangers behind him; that, he’d done before. “Look,” he’d stammered, “this isn’t going to _work_ , I don’t know anything about fighting, the only sport I’m into is track-”

The principal’s smile had been terrifyingly happy. “So _run!_ ”

He’d tried. And maybe stayed ahead of sword, kicking feet, and grabbing hands for all of... oh, about thirty seconds. They’d had to _drag_ him off the stage, after.

And now Cavins wanted him in the Theater track? Why?

“So....” The principal’s grin had teeth. “Right about now, you’re wondering how crazy I am, and if you can get out the windows first. You can’t, by the way. You’d need a _lot_ more training for that.”

_Eep?_

“Though with hands like those, I know you’d make it down from the window. Most freshmen here wouldn’t,” Cavins reflected. “ _Track_. Right. What do you really do? Rock climbing? Gymnastics?”

Like his mom would have been able to afford either of those. “You’ve got my records,” Alan stated. “I do track.”

“Right,” the principal drawled. “Well, whatever it is you don’t do, you have the grip strength for swordwork. That’s important. But there’s something even more important you don’t know yet.” Cavins held up his old schedule, and deliberately tore it in half. “You could take these classes. And probably do well. And have all the time you think you need to plan your escape.”

 _What? Wait, how’d he know_ -

“I’m really trying not to take that personally, you know.” The principal tore the schedule across again. “I don’t know your whole story yet, but I can read between the lines. Your last name is Ryans, your father’s is Silversmith; your records got transferred down here _without_ your direct permission, and a week before I got any of your paperwork you were delivered to our local hospital raving out of your head with a fever. In short - no one asked you, no one so much as gave you a choice to be here. And since you’re a _stubborn_ kid, fierce enough to try to stay alive even when a mad principal’s coming after you with a really big sword... you’re planning to run for it.”

 _Oh hell_.

Cavins tore the folded paper a third time. “You have guts. I _like_ that. Which is why I’m going to help.”

“...What?” Alan managed, tense. Because there was no way, _no way_ an adult was going to help him get out from under his father’s thumb without strings attached. People weren’t that nice. Ever.

“You,” the principal said gravely, “are going into the Theater track. Where you will be very, very busy. And you will learn things. All kinds of _useful_ things, for a kid who wants to try something his father definitely won’t approve of.” The smile came back. “And remember, learning is a collaborative experience! Think of your fellow students. They need more experience in dealing with _interesting_ people.”

Alan blinked. Twice. That didn’t sound like the way anybody sane used _interesting_ , unless it was _May you live in Interesting Times_. “Did you miss me _falling over your feet?_ ”

Cavins grinned. “Give it a week.”

_“What?”_

“Give it a week,” the principal repeated. “Then I’ll chase you around a stage again. I promise, you’ll last more than thirty seconds.”

 _Way, way too good to be true_. “On my own,” Alan said neutrally. “No _help_.”

“I’ll go after you as fiercely as I did then.” Cavins’ eyes danced. “I train stuntmen, Alan. I know good reflexes when I see them. You have them. You just need someone to drag them out.” Standing, he brandished a new schedule in Alan’s face. “Get moving! You’re already late!”

Bewildered, Alan had taken it. And bolted.

The rest of the day had been relatively tame, if he didn’t count forgetting his ID, getting _looks_ over bringing his own bagged lunch, and getting lost in the halls three times while trying to find the rest of his new classes. Getting the textbooks he had traded in for the ones he needed now had pretty much taken the last oomph in his ability to blush. And now _this_.

 _Cold, damn it... okay, think_. Alan knuckled his forehead, trying to push past that fine edge of fever that had never really gone away; just subsided to the point the doctors had sent him home to get better rather than risk catching something else in the hospital. _Where can I get stuff cleaned off before this goop sets?_

Well. If the football players were all up in Home Ec, they weren’t in the locker room.

 _Showers it is_.

Sink first, actually; splashing water and scrubbing with paper towels until the rest should come out in another wash. Good thing old habits died hard. He was used to packs with mended holes, so he’d lined the inside with a plastic bag, and all his new books were still un-punchified. Pens and pencils would take a heavy rinse, but he could do that later. Lucky for him Hancock High had some old-fashioned stuffiness about computers; anything with a keyboard got left home, you had a whole computer lab to play with in a free period. Something to do with too many inter-class raids wrecking circuits; he still wasn’t sure he’d heard that right....

In the middle of looking over the rest of the damage, his teeth chattered.

 _Damn it_.

Shoes and socks safely tucked on a bench, Alan threw his uniform into the shower long enough for cold water to rinse some of the sticky off. Snatched it out, and turned up the water as hot as it would go.

... _Better_.

Alan breathed in steam, wringing the last smudges of purple out of mouse-brown hair, and tried not to think about the torture fall in his hometown would be right now. Until he could shake this fever, just a whisper of a cold draft made him hurt all over. Even air conditioning ached. As for keeping up his usual run schedule - he wasn’t that much of a stubborn idiot. He’d run some, but he planned to keep it light and short. And hope another week would fix whatever was wrong with him.

 _If it doesn’t, I might get out of Theater_.

Though even thinking that made him grit his teeth and dig in mental heels. He hated to fail, even if he didn’t want to be in Theater. Or anything to do with acting, or makeup, or being seen. _Lawyers_ needed theatrics. Anne Ryans had been an independent journalist and blogger; she’d used her words to change the world, not her looks. And he was going to do the same. Silversmith, Miller, and Katzinger was his father’s firm, and his half-brothers’, and they could keep it.

So no. He didn’t want to be in Principal Cavins’ pet program. Why would anyone sane want to fling themselves up against a maniac retired stage fencer with a _real sword_ , with nothing between them and the death of a thousand cuts but a half-guess at which way to jump next-

 _Steel glinted, as the world slowed_.

Alan shook water out of his eyes, trying not to think about that weird feeling in the midst of Cavins kicking his butt all over the stage. The moment he’d been sure, impossibly sure, that all he had to do was-

_Heel-stomp, launch up and twirl, the opening is there-!_

The edge of his hand had struck the base of the principal’s left thumb. He’d felt muscles spasm, loosening Cavins’ iron grip on the hilt.

Then the world had gone too fast and crazy again, and he didn’t remember exactly what had happened next. Only that he’d been crumpled on the stage, breathing too hard to move another step. And everything hurt.

 _Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe I didn’t even touch him_.

Wouldn’t be a surprise. Ever since the fever, he’d had the weirdest dreams. Monsters, falling through a tunnel of light... and yet somehow, none of it counted as nightmares, because there was a weird core of _peace_. An utter certainty that he wasn’t facing the dark alone-

Alan swiped more water out of his eyes, and shoved the shower off hard. It hurt. It _hurt_ , being alone.

Which made no sense. It’d always been him and Mom against the world. Sure, he’d had a few friends to run with and maybe play a videogame or two. And he missed them. A little. Wasn’t even worth mentioning, next to how worried he was about Maria and the rascals. Yet even worry felt nothing like this.

 _It’s just weird dreams_ , Alan told himself, grabbing a towel. _That’s all. Get better, they’ll go away_.

_“How long can we share adventures like this, with Al-Thamen out there?”_

_A young boy’s chuckle, and a hand gripping his. “Forever.”_

_Just a dream_ , Alan thought, dressing in his gym clothes; at least they were dry. _Just a terrible - wonderful - dream_.

Seriously, Al-Thamen? His subconscious must have been drinking from the old fairytale fountain while he was out. And thank god Morgan couldn’t look inside his head. If she ever found out his mind had dressed her up in a skimpy ancient slave girl outfit, they’d never find his body.

 _You’re lucky you’re still breathing as it is_ , Alan knew, settling the cord that held his multitool over his head. Even if all else failed and his house keys went the way of the dodo, he could still get in and collapse in his own bedroom. Wasn’t burglary if you were breaking in to where you lived, right? _“Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?” Fail, Alan. Utter fail_.

He didn’t know which was scarier; the looks from Morgan’s older, toothier cousins as they cracked their knuckles, or the fact that _it hadn’t been a line_. He’d seen her move; like a falcon, like a red wolf on the prowl. He’d seen her stop and help up one of the cafeteria ladies’ little kids who’d tripped, swiping off tears with a napkin and informing the boy with a stern and serious air exactly how to clean that scrape off so his mother wouldn’t worry. And his world had just - turned over.

Which was insane. Why would a cute girl like Morgan even look twice at him? He wasn’t that tall, he definitely didn’t have the muscles somebody on the football squad could lay claim to, and, well, hair that looked like a giant mouse could borrow it and no one would notice. Mom had always said he was utterly adorable, but that was Mom; most people thought the family’s gold eyes were just _weird_.

 _I don’t know what Morgan needs that I could give her. I mean, who am I to give anybody around here anything? But - if she does need something, I want to be there_.

Heh. What a dream. So far all he’d managed was a lot of babbling and a few inane questions about the MacLeas and local martial arts tournaments, with a couple added intelligent bits like, “What’d you think about number 3 on the Chem quiz?”

Alan took a deep breath, and sighed. Packed up his clothes, put on slightly squishy socks and sneakers, and slung his backpack over his shoulder. It was Friday. Time to stop thinking about Morgan, and crazy principals, and crazier dreams about a blue-haired kid he could never quite see, blinded by sun-bright birds.

 _Just get home and collapse_ , Alan told himself. _Try contacting Sister Thomasina again tomorrow night. She ought to know if she’s got the right files by then. If she doesn’t, might be able to get some out of online storage, or... I don’t know. We’ll think of something_.

Looking both ways, he headed out the door that led toward the football field. Scary territory, but he’d already snooped around enough to know if he just snuck through the chain-link corridor and took a left, he’d end up behind the grounds maintenance shed at the start of the pine woods, and that was usually a quiet run home-

_“Look out!”_

Darkness burst in his face, like a flutter of black birds.

_Chains?_

Red and black as lava, they flung him against the side of the shed, sinking into the sand-painted concrete wall as if they weren’t quite real. They were real enough to hold him, though, no matter how much he struggled. “What the hell?”

 _In black_ , Alan thought inanely, as a tall, sharp-bearded man stalked into view, long coat over his suit as if he stood in the middle of his own personal blizzard. _Of course he’s all in black_.

“A child.” The man’s accent sounded foreign; European, maybe? “And you thought this would save you?”

 _“Let him go!”_ The words that came with another clank of chains weren’t English, but somehow Alan knew them anyway. _“He hasn’t done anything to you!”_

 _That voice_ , Alan thought, fighting to stay upright as chains bit into his arms, draining away strength like water. _Where have I heard that voice before?_

Thirteen, maybe fourteen; definitely a boy, even if the blue braid escaping from his turban was long enough to try roping a horse. Eyes just as impossibly blue, and defiant, as the kid struggled under his own weight of red-black chains.

Alan swore, and fought his chains harder. A kid out of his dreams, a perfect stranger - he didn’t care. Nobody hurt a kid in front of him. Not while he was still breathing.

“But child or not, the power is there,” Black Coat mused to himself. “And in such a callow youth... ripe for the plucking.” Fingers glittering with dark power, his hand plunged down.

_What- not happening...!_

Black Coat’s hand was _under_ his skin, rummaging around in Alan’s chest like he was poking for lost car keys. Invading, tearing-

With a smirk of triumph, Black Coat pulled out a glowing black sword.

_That... was inside me...?_

The blade shimmered with unearthly heat, too hot for mortal flesh to bear; heat sucked out of the marrow of his bones. The world grayed out as Alan’s knees gave way. Dimly he could hear Black Coat chanting, the chained kid’s pleas to _wake up, Alibaba, you’ve got to stay awake, Amon needs you-!_

 _Alibaba?_ Alan wondered, mind a muddled mess of monsters and light and cold. _He thinks I’m his friend?_

Which didn’t make sense, anymore than dying of hypothermia in the middle of a Florida afternoon. But he was. Alan could feel the chill stiffening his fingers, closing down his thoughts like a river locked in ice.

_Have to do something._

_“Alibaba.”_ The blue-haired kid had used Black Coat’s chanting distraction to get over to him, chains and all. Tears were trickling down his face; Alan felt one splash on his cheek. _“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! He found me before I could wake up - before I could wake you up, or Morgiana, or anyone!”_

Alan blinked, trying to think. _Chains... mean a lock_.

He fumbled open one side of his multitool, thumbnail prying open the little prong of steel most people used for a nail-file, and he’d learned to use for... well, various things involving doors he was on the wrong side of. Gripped the kid’s arm, and turned it to look over the manacle.

_Don’t care if it’s magic. Don’t care if it’s impossible. If they locked on, then there has to be a lock!_

There. A dark line in darker magic. Alan stabbed the nail-file in, and twisted.

_Open! Damn it, open!_

The kid’s chains were draining him even worse than his own; sucking away life and hope like vampire leeches. Alan gritted his teeth and kept prying. _I’m going to open this thing if it’s the last thing I do-!_

Dream-images flickered through his daze. A lock that needed two right hands to open. A smile. A promise.

Alan drew in a breath, for one last defiant snarl. _“Khul ja shem-shamayim!”_

_Open Sesame!_

With a note like shattering crystal, chains burst asunder.

Yards away, Black Coat cursed, a steel wand flaring white-hot before it warped and melted. “You dare defy me, slave of Solomon?”

 _Damn right he did_. Alan couldn’t get the words out, no matter how much he wanted to hurl them at the man. Huh; he’d broken all the chains, not just the kid’s. Too bad he didn’t have the oomph left to take advantage of it. _Djinn aren’t slaves. They choose their own kings... why do I know that?_

And why did his multitool feel warm?

“Alibaba.” Faint and far away, he felt smaller fingers close his own on familiar metal. _“Don’t give up! Repeat after me - don’t complain, Amon, there’s no time! - sacred servant of decorum and austerity-”_

The words were ancient. Impossible. But even as everything faded, he knew them.

 _-I command thee and thy brethren_.

Warmth, flaring against his fingers.

 _Use my magoi to lend tremendous power to my will_.

Warmth burned into _hot_ , racing down his veins to kick his faltering heart back into rhythm.

_“Show yourself, Amon!”_

Fire, roaring around him like a forest set ablaze.

_Holy-!_

The metal in his hand wasn’t a tool, anymore.

Alan glanced up from the antique dagger in his grip, and put the kid behind him. He didn’t know how he was standing again; breathing, even though it felt like someone had scraped his soul raw. But he’d take it. _“Back off, you son of a mule and a drunken camel!”_

Wait. That was definitely not what he’d meant to say.

Alan cleared his throat, feeling the flames inside the blade ready to flick out again. There were already scorch marks spiraling over the red bark mulch, and how the hell was he going to explain that? “I said back off!” His free hand was tucked behind him, ready to either grab the kid or slam up to help a block, and why on earth did he think he had _any clue_ what he was doing?

“So you too can summon the spirit of a past warrior from the rukh to empower your champion,” Black Coat mused, fingers twitching as if they meant to grab something out of the depths of his coat the moment Alan blinked. “But that spirit has had no time to learn the strengths of this body.” A smirk. “Or its weaknesses. Modern mortals are so very soft, aren’t they?”

Alan wouldn’t say that, exactly, but right now, the guy might have a point. He’d done enough rooftop running to recognize the tremble of exhaustion in his muscles. _Finish this quick, or he’s going to be all over us. And he’s not shaking_. “Who are you? What do you want with us?”

Alan fully planned to freak out about that _us_. Later. Right now he hated bullies, anyone who chained up a kid with life-sucking manacles was the worst kind of bully, and he’d set Blue-Hair straight about who he wasn’t after they got away.

 _Right. Get away. As in start moving, now_.

 _“He said his name was Callimachus,”_ the boy behind him got out in a rush. _“And he’s an alchemist and he was looking for the lost power of Solomon - and that’s kind of crazy, it wasn’t ever_ lost, _Al-Thamen just slammed it down for a while - and where’s that pretty girl who was with him?”_

 _Girl?_ Alan thought, trying not to freak at the fact that no, Blue-Hair was _not_ speaking English. _What_ -

He saw a flicker of movement just in time to keep his jaw from getting broken by a flying kick. Just.

 _Dark hair - not a girl, must be at least thirty - punches like a demon_ -

Flashes, in the terrible intensity of focus that was staying alive. He twirled and slashed, trying to ignore the _feel_ of cloth and skin tearing with his strikes. She was fast, blindingly fast; the only thing that’d saved him was that flicker of _surprise_ in dark eyes. That yes, he _knew_ she was trying to kill him, and he was trying to kill her right back.

 _Oh god I’m going to be so sick_.

Later. He’d be sick _later_. Because she was trying to get past him to the kid, and he - he was _not going to let that happen_.

 _Not going to have a choice. She’s fresher than I am. If I could just_ -

It was crazy. But what wasn’t? “Amon!”

Flames crashed down with his next strike, biting into thinner denim under her arm. Not a surface slash, he was _through_ fooling around; this one was going to slide right past ribs and kill-

Black light flared, an intricate runic circle that blasted fire back in his face. The world flashed red.

_...How am I still alive?_

Because he was, even as he tried to pick himself up from the dent he’d left in the maintenance shed. An actual, three-inch-deep _dent_ , the hard adobe-like coating over plywood cracked and powdered where it’d crunched inward around him.

 _Ow_.

Alan tried to catch his breath, every muscle shaking; steel still warm in his grip. All he could think was that he had to be hurt way worse than he knew. And even that didn’t hurt like his heart, as the black-haired martial artist gave him a dismissive look and headed for-

Almost. Almost, he had a name as the blue-haired boy stood straight. _Stood_ there, not running like a sane person.

_“You don’t want to do this.”_

...And it didn’t matter how hurt he was, or that all Alan’s muscles felt like overcooked spaghetti. He gripped the edge of the broken wall, and started trying to pull himself up. Because she really, really _did_ want to do this, and if the kid couldn’t see that-

The boy raised one hand, face set and determined, a white glow fluttering around his fingers like moths. _“I mean it. You_ really _don’t want to do this.”_

Alan blinked away dust, as the woman stopped. “Sir?” she said quietly.

“A bluff, Phaenomena,” Callimachus declared, reaching into his coat. “He has no wand-”

The boy shoved his hand forward, and light blazed like a curved wall.

... _Houston, I have officially hit Wonderland_.

Their pair of bad guys seemed to be right at home, though. Callimachus and Phaenomena just traded a glance, and she started circling left to draw the boy’s attention from whatever Callimachus was about to do-

A streak of white, blue, and fiery MacLea red blazed through the air. Bone broke with an audible _crunch_.

 _Collarbone_ , Alan realized, almost on his feet. _Good one, too many magicians rely on gestures- yipe!_

Morgan and Phaenomena were a blur of kicks and punches as Callimachus stumbled away from the brawl. Any one of those, Alan knew, would have laid him out for a week if he were _lucky_. The two woman were striking and dodging like this was a walk in the park.

 _Okay, maybe Central Park_.

Small fingers wrapped around his left hand, pulling him up with surprising strength. _“Morgiana’s here too? Awesome!”_

 _Great. Kid thinks we’re both his friends. This is going to be so messy_. Alan coughed, surprised his ribs weren’t stabbing through his lungs. “We need to get out of here before somebody gets hurt!” _Okay, well, hurt_ more....

But somehow that’d been the right thing to say. The kid’s face lit up, even as he reached up to pull off his turban-

 _What_.

White fabric had just floated free like laundry snapping in the wind, shaking into a wide white rectangle of impossibly stiff cloth. The fringe flicked him like fingers, scooping up him, the kid, and his backpack smooth as silk.

_...What?_

“Phaenomena!” Callimachus roared, left hand trying to scrabble something out of his coat. “Cut the carpet-”

_“Morgiana, jump!”_

Morgan backflipped away from her opponent’s sweeping kick, and leapt.

 _And she sticks the landing, natch_ , Alan thought, as white cloth hurtled upward fast as a rollercoaster. He didn’t remember dropping down to his knees as the wind tore at them, but hey, good idea-

 _We’re on a_ flying carpet. _What part of_ any _of this is a good idea?!?_

 _“It’s okay.”_ The boy was right beside him, looking over the scratches and bruises he’d gotten with a way too experienced air. _“You drained your magoi a lot - Amon, that was_ mean _of you, when we get a little rest we’re going to talk! - but you’re okay.”_ He smiled at Morgan, bright as dawn. _“You’re always rescuing us! I’m so glad to see you....”_ He trailed off at her slight frown. _“What?”_

Morgan stared at him, red-brown eyes intense as fire. Glanced at Alan. “Why do we understand what he’s saying?”

Alan tried to shift a little closer to the center of the cloth, staring at the longleaf and live oaks so far below. From this high he could even spot the Gulf of Mexico, a red pennant flapping on a sailboat tacking across the bay. “No. Clue. Whatsoever.”

 _“You... don’t....”_ The boy swallowed hard. _“Oh. It’s like Titus was, after-”_

And that was all the warning Alan had, as those thin, strong arms pulled him _and_ Morgan into a three-way hug.

 _“I’m Aladdin,”_ the boy said fiercely. _“And a long time ago, you two promised to wait for me. No matter how many lives it took. I’ve missed you so much!”_

* * *

“Well, well.” Simon tapped the quite real sword at his side, bestowing the look of a man upon whom the gods have smiled to the black-clad pair trying to drag themselves up out of scorched mulch. _“Trespassers.”_

“Be careful,” Ja’far murmured. “This could be a fair fight.” The bruised black-haired woman had the look of a ki-using martial artist. And from the way the rukh swirled about the other, silver-black as a haunted thundercloud... if the man with the overly dramatic coat and broken collarbone wasn’t a magician - a _powerful_ one - he’d eat off his daggers. Their unwelcome guests had shattered the wards around Hancock High like they’d dropped through a glass spiderweb; he’d barely had time to grab Simon and run here, hoping the uproar in the rukh wouldn’t lead them to corpses.

No bodies. But anyone who’d broken his wards was definitely not a friend.

Two on two; much more even odds than he preferred, ever. But right now there weren’t any innocent bystanders, so he could pull out as many underhanded tricks as he liked.

 _There_ were _innocent bystanders, though_. Ja’far let his gaze just brush over the scorch marks on the mulch; fire magic, definitely. _Or mostly innocent_ , he amended, catching sight of the dent in the shed wall. The only people that could have made _that_ and walked away were a full-strength Fanalis, a highly-advanced magoi user... or someone with a Vessel. _The situation is moving faster than I thought_.

Maybe he’d had too much of a breather, these past few years running Hancock High with Simon. The man lived such a _quiet_ life.

...Well. In comparison to several lives ago. Oh dear.

“Who are you?” the magician said coldly.

“Oh, I think that should be my line,” Simon said easily. “But since you asked. Simon Cavins, school principal, ex-stunt fencer, and general ladies’ man.” He winked at the martial artist. Who looked like she’d just spotted a scorpion in her shoes, _after_ she’d put them on. “Which means I’m responsible for the safety of my students on school grounds. And if that means warning off people who _shouldn’t be here_....” Fingers tapped near his hilt. “I guess someone has to do it. And you?”

The magician looked past Simon. Never a good idea. “And you?”

 _Oh hell_.

Normally his wards would have warned Ja’far of approaching strangers while they were still far away enough for him to take precautions, even if they were idiots out from the naval base pushing their vehicle to its redline. This time there’d been no warning before the wards had been smashed. He and Simon had barely had time to get here; Ja’far hadn’t had so much as a breath to raise the careful weave of subtle spells that hid his magic whenever there was reason to be wary.

And their opponent was an _experienced magician_. Meaning he’d seen enough to know the glimmer of gold in Ja’far’s own silver rukh wasn’t... normal. Not in this world.

“Oh, he never gives names on the first date,” Simon said easily.

Not that it would matter much if Simon did give them his legal name, Ja’far knew. _Zvezdilin_ was effectively an alias; and given most of his students couldn’t even pronounce it, any curse that might try to ensnare it would be seriously weakened.

“This is school property,” Simon went on, “and you’re not members of my staff or parents of any of my students. I know all of them. Now. Do you want to tell me what you’re doing here, or do we call the police.” Simon’s smile edged a little wider. “Of course, you know what they say. When seconds count, the police are minutes away.”

“Is that meant to be a threat, Principal Cavins?” For a man who ought to be writhing in pain from shattered bones, the magician was remarkably self-possessed.

 _Well trained, then_. Ja’far’s eyes narrowed. _And probably much older than he looks_.

Though it was the woman who might be the wild card. He knew enough about magic to be prepared for how an injured magician might strike out. But there was something he didn’t recognize in her stance. And that worried him.

“Threat? Why would I threaten anyone?” Simon’s own stance shifted; not a threat, but a promise. “I’m an educator. And no one strays onto school grounds without getting an _education_.”

“I see I already have,” the magician muttered. Eyed the both of them coldly, turned, and strode away.

Ja’far watched the pair of them head for the road, probably intending to follow the sidewalk to the nearby park’s parking lot. If they meant to travel by car, and not magic circle.

 _And they probably do_ , Ja’far thought. _Magic’s thicker in the air these days - a slow seep, rather than dewdrops - but those two just got their noses bloodied. And they’re smart. They’ll save their magoi, if they can_.

“Well. That was... interesting.” Simon’s grin still bared a few too many teeth. “Someone you’ve met before?”

“I don’t think I have,” Ja’far reflected. “Ever.”

“A whole new set of enemies?” Simon looked downright intrigued. “Well, I suppose that’s only fair. We might have too much of an advantage, otherwise.”

Ja’far stifled a groan. _Why did I have to get reborn now? And as a magician?_

Worse, as one of the magicians of the Magnos Clan, whose founders had been bound and determined not to let magic get lost just because someone didn’t survive to write the spells down. So they’d studied, and experimented with the thin magic still remaining in the world - and found a way to ask the rukh for what they thought they needed. So on their thirteenth birthday the elders of the clan performed a complex working, to find an ancient name that would unlock a child’s memories of magic that soul had seen - or _done_ \- in past lives.

 _Which works just fine so long as your clan members are reborn_ magicians.

A former Partevian assassin... hadn’t really been what his clan members had in mind.

 _At least I didn’t kill anybody getting out of the cavern_ , Ja’far thought ruefully. Most of the clan’s children “woke up” to being surrounded by magicians with utter joy. He - well, given Sindria’s sometimes dangerous relations with Magnostadt, coming to with jumbled memories and recognizing a potential wand crossfire had resulted in several bloody noses, a few broken bones, and a lot of very _tense_ negotiations as he’d held a knife to what had turned out to be his great-uncle’s throat. All compounded by the fact that at the time, his grasp on modern language had been... shaky.

It’d settled down in a few weeks; the Magnos spell was meant to give _access_ to past memories, not overwrite the present. He wasn’t the same Ja’far as he’d been in Sindria, for better or worse. Probably for better. His past self, encountering Simon, would have dragged him into the Magnos spell out of sheer paranoid self-preservation.

His present self, once he’d accepted the fact that Simon was real, and not a radioactive hallucination, had started layering every spell of mental and spiritual protection he could find on the man. Including a few he’d flat-out invented. Because no evil, grasping megalomaniac was getting their fingers into that soul _ever again_.

_Never again, David. You’ll have him over my dead body!_

...Not that that would slow Aladdin’s bastard of a grandfather down much. Ja’far only hoped the young magi had put that misbegotten son of the black rukh down for good.

 _But I can’t be sure. Ever_.

All he could do was bury the past, and hope no other soul dragged it up again. Because anyone with the power to rouse those lost memories... wouldn’t have gentle intentions.

 _Sinbad of the Seven Seas. And he thinks he’s just an actor_.

Well. Simon Cavins would never think he was _just_ anything.

“So.” The actor-turned-principal eyed the scorch marks. “Fire magic, or Heat magic?”

Simon was one of the few non-magicians who knew there was a difference, if only in the effects; Fire magic used the energy of the spellcaster’s magoi to create flames, while straight Heat magic might just effectively microwave an unlucky victim. The former actor would never be a magician, but he’d taken to magoi manipulation to strengthen bodies and speed reflexes as easily as he had charming teachers, parents, and school boards. Ja’far’s clan didn’t exactly approve, but after Simon’s advice had allowed the clan to arrange certain property matters so they didn’t have to rely on just illusions to keep location scouts and Russian soldiers off clan territory, they’d mostly gotten over it....

And Simon’s raised brow meant he’d noticed Ja’far wasn’t answering. Oh no.

“So it’s definitely magic,” Simon concluded. “If the school grapevine bore honest fruit, Alan was headed this way to slog home after our sainted football team got careless. I keep telling them they need to practice manners if they ever want a second date... and none of them are ever going to get a first date with a MacLea if they cringe when she breaks things.”

Ja’far tried not to cringe himself. If his clan elders’ reading of the rukh was right, and the amount of magoi people could grasp to work magic was on an upswing after centuries of quiet, dating a Fanalis was about to become a distinctly hazardous life choice. Especially Morgan. Normally the rukh flowed thin and faint around Fanalis, the way it did around Morgan’s pair of wild cousins. But from the moment Ja’far had seen her walk into his homeroom the first day of school, she’d glimmered; like a lake casting back the faintest hint of dawn.

 _Caress that young lady for the first time, you’re likely to get your arm broken. Or worse_.

Not that that had stopped some people before. In his past memories, one person in particular.

“Alan didn’t even flinch at the brick-break. Interesting,” Simon reflected. “Morgan must have thought that was, too. The way the ground’s torn up here, someone faced off with our denim-clad lady martial artist, and there’s no way Alan’s up to that kind of sustained fight yet.” He paused. “Yet a Fanalis can’t call up magic without risking her life.”

Yes, Simon had definitely paid attention to his lessons. This was going to be awkward.

Simon cleared his throat.

 _Very, very awkward_. “Well, you do love surprises?” Ja’far tried.

“And you _hate_ surprises,” Simon stated. “But you tossed our little gold-eyes up at me on stage anyway. And if the two we met tangled with two of my students hard enough to leave _this_ ,” he waved at the man-sized dent in the shed wall, “then they’re in trouble. What. Do. You. Know?”

Simon might not have seven Djinn backing him, but he still had a swashbuckler’s fierce confidence, and that drive to make a place for those who didn’t have any that had created Sindria out of islands and sheer determination. Ja’far braced himself, and told the truth. “I know enough to know I’m... confused.”

Some of the tension went out of Simon’s shoulders. “You _do_ know him.”

“I think I did, a long time ago,” Ja’far admitted. Not that he could be sure. His past had crossed blades with no few fire-users, and back then he hadn’t had a magician’s eyes. “I’ve managed to touch him a few times, and his magoi feels familiar. He’s strong enough to support this much magic.”

“But?” Simon put in.

“But he shouldn’t know how.” Ja’far nodded toward the slightly singed dent. “You see how it’s shaped? That’s direct force absorption. Clean and efficient. Most magicians his age - especially if they’re self-trained, and Mr. Silversmith knows _nothing_ about magic - wouldn’t know more than a standard Borg, if they could even manage that-”

“Right; the basic reflex sphere-shield. Which would leave a big domed dent, if he got hit hard enough to knock it back,” Simon finished. “Not at all like our poor shed. Still, he obviously managed to defend himself. The question is how?”

Ja’far hedged. “I’m not sure....”

Simon crossed his arms, fingers tapping on his sleeve.

Ja’far was blushing, he just knew it. “Unlessthere’sadjinninvolved.”

Simon blinked. Well, fine. He’d said it. Crazy as it sounded-

“Seriously?” Simon grinned.

...And how could he have forgotten that to Simon, crazy was a challenge? “But I don’t know how that could happen!” Ja’far protested. “I know magoi’s been easier to use these past few years, but it’s still an icicle-trickle to the ancient world’s waterfalls. No one’s seen a dungeon in millennia, much less a magi-”

The ground trembled.

 _No way_ , Ja’far thought, frozen. Florida did get natural earthquakes, after all; minor ones that would barely shake a plate off the shelves, but they did happen. And then there were the not-so-natural aftershocks and bangs from the various military bases scattered through the Panhandle. So there were plenty of perfectly reasonable explanations for why there was a shaking in the air and earth that wanted to rattle his very bones-

Simon was peering past him, open-mouthed. “...Wow.”

 _I don’t want to look_. Wincing, Ja’far turned.

A tower was rumbling skyward, sheer walls the color of old ivory. A spiraling staircase seemed to sprout out of the midst of it like a vine, curling down farther and farther as the tower itself pierced upward.

...He couldn’t be absolutely sure from right here, but it looked like the school tennis courts were history.

 _Not. Possible_.

Ja’far wasn’t sure exactly how long he might have stood there staring, if Simon’s hand hadn’t landed on his shoulder. “So that’s a dungeon, hmm?” The principal grinned. “Are we doing anything this weekend?”

Ja’far groaned. And wondered how fast he could get hold of Instructor Tiburon when - not if, _when_ \- Simon finally talked him into it. Because he had memories of six dungeons already, each more hair-raisingly dangerous than the last, and if he couldn’t lay hands on any of Sinbad’s other Generals then at least Sharrkan was going to go down with him.

_Cheer up. Sinbad’s last Djinn said none of us would ever be allowed in a dungeon again - “seven Djinn is enough”. That might still hold. Maybe._

_...Why do I not think I’m going to be that lucky?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So; a modern high school AU. Kind of. Only this one happens in the far future of the Magi universe; probably at least a few thousand years after Aladdin and co. beat Al-Thamen. (Possibly a lot longer.) But victory cost them a lot.... 
> 
> _ak’al-ab’_ \- “children”. K’iche’ or Quiché (a.k.a. Qatzijob'al "our language") is a Mayan language of Guatemala. 
> 
> Also, there may be some details of Magi canon that get ignored. Particularly anything relating to certain rumors of Sinbad’s past life. Seriously, the guy had a bad enough time in canon to turn him all the way evil, much less the whole half-Fallen mess; no need to add more on top of it!


	2. Sending out an SOS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never, ever let Sinbad rewrite your schedule. Never.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said on the first chapter, this is still in progress and NaNo comes first until December. But I think this chapter is good to go. :)

_Kill the wab-bit! Kill the_ wab- _bit! Kill the_ -

Alan thumped off the _Ride of the Valkyries_ alarm, blinking blearily. Alarms were evil and should die. Especially alarms that made him have to struggle out of a knobby, warm bubble of happy.

_Happy. It’s been a while_.

He was trying not to feel guilty about that glimmer of _warm_. Mom wouldn’t want him to curl up in a dark corner forever. Even if sometimes he felt like that was all he wanted to do.

_Up, anyway_ , Alan thought through the fog. _Geh. Drink of water?_

The one nice thing about living in Florida was his own bathroom. Even if he had to have discussions with Miss Tanya about who, exactly, was supposed to be cleaning it. Which meant he could stick his head under the faucet as long as he needed to, to get the sand scrubbed out of his eyes.

_Sand. Urgh. Nightmares_.

He’d had a lot of them. Which was funny, considering that contented glow wrapped around the familiar ache of loss. Or maybe not; he remembered reading somewhere nightmares hit when the stress was off. Though what kind of stress had evaporated off that his brain had pulled a nightmare patrol of monsters, facing off with a black-haired friend apparently fallen Darkside, Morgan in short robes with her eyes bleeding, and flying through the air in a crackle of fire with the _principal_ dressed up like a sea-dragon, clawed hands raising a sword that hammered down lightning....

_My brain. It is full of weird_. Alan blinked, and rinsed his face again, noticing he was still in yesterday’s gym clothes. Ugh. _Maybe the punch was drugged?_

It’d explain a lot. Flying turbans, hands reaching _into_ his chest; Morgan leaping into battle in her school uniform like flying justice, only to turn up in his bed-

_What?_

Oh no. No way.

Heart in his throat, Alan peeked out of the bathroom door. Sheets, blankets, comforter - he’d been sleeping under a _lot_ of layers since he’d gotten here, trying to keep the fever somewhat at bay-

Um. That shade of red wasn’t in any of his blankets.

Alan slammed himself out of sight by the side of the doorway, heart racing. Red hair, curled into one of his pillows. Tanned, slightly knobby-elbowed arms; he knew, he’d somehow pried his way out of them half-asleep. And an impossibly cute face, attached to a body that could break bricks like matchsticks.

Dead. He was _so dead_.

... _Where did that_ blue _come from?_

Warily, Alan peeked around the doorway. Red hair on what would have been his right side, check. Sprawled on the other side of the bed - a long blue braid attached to a kid wearing a red gem on his forehead and smiling in his sleep. Whose arms would have been the _other_ set he’d wriggled out of, on his way to smashing off the alarm.

_Girl. Boy. System crash. Reboot: Y/N?_

Very quietly, Alan thumped his head against the doorframe. Ow. Okay, so he really _was_ awake, and this wasn’t another crazy nightmare.

_Yep. So dead_.

_...Maybe if I take a_ really _quick shower, I can at least smell nice before they kill me_.

On tiptoes, Alan snuck back into his bedroom, snatched a few clothes from his dresser, and dove back into the bathroom. Because if he had been drugged - and man, he was kind of hoping he had, at least someone might consider it enough excuse to let him live - maybe he hadn’t scrubbed it all off yesterday.

_Shower_. Hot _shower_.

Of course, down here, even the cold water often came out warm to start. Almost blood-warm-

Standing under the water, Alan stared at his hands. _I tried to kill her_.

He could remember it in flashes of fevered clarity. Dodging the first blow. Reading the lethal intent. Deciding he and Aladdin were _not going to die_. No matter what it took.

No amount of soap was going to wash that off.

He stared down at the multitool thumping against his chest. Odd; usually he took that off before he even thought about getting in a shower. But he hadn’t. And the water seemed to just bead off it, like the odd sigil had heard of oxidation and decided it wasn’t having any-

Alan let the last of the suds flow away, and turned off the water to look at the metal more clearly. He _knew_ that multitool. He’d picked it out with his mother years ago, when they’d prepared to get the real goods on a local landfill that was violating ordinances and common decency left, right, and center. That story had been explosive. In more ways than one.

Gray steel, he knew; a surprisingly effective little array of knives, screwdrivers, and interesting ways to poke things, all folding up to hide within the main pliers. The tracery of square-on-square to make an eight-pointed star in a circle, centered right in the hinge of the pliers... that was new.

_Amon!_

A name. A battle-cry, that’d summoned flames meant to slice through Phaenomena’s heart. Because that was where he’d been aiming.

_I meant to kill her. Without that dark Borg, I would have._

_...What the hell is a Borg?_

Alan shook his head, and got out of the cooling steam. Nothing was making sense. His mind felt like a jigsaw puzzle someone had shaken and upended, dropping in a pile of pieces that didn’t fit.

_I’m scared. I might be going crazy._

_Oh, and Morgan’s uncle might just kill me. You know, if nothing else goes wrong_.

Okay. Okay, then - deal with that first. Get Morgan up and out of here and home. Hopefully without any damage to her reputation. Because Morgan didn’t deserve that, especially when she’d saved his butt and absolutely _nothing had happened_.

Not that the school grapevine would ever believe that. Vicious little yuppie larvae gossips. Almost as bad as Qishan fruit vendors-

T-shirt pulled on, Alan thumped his head against the doorframe. No, beating his head against the wall apparently did not help. Darn it.

_Get Morgan home, ask the kid why he’s in my bed, and then get him wherever he belongs_ , Alan decided. _Oh, and warn whoever’s taking care of him about Callimachus and Phaenomena. Because ouch_.

Alan peeked through the doorway again, noticing how Aladdin and Morgan had both started migrating toward the center of his bed. Good thing he’d put a thick pillow in between, or Aladdin would have wound up with his face pressed somewhere heavenly. And then Morgan’s uncle would just have to kill him....

Alan buried his face in his hands, not sure if he should laugh or cry. Yesterday he’d just been worried about washing out punch, getting a head start on his new homework, and long-distance document searches with Sister Thomasina. Now?

_Someone tried to kill me. I tried to kill her back. And she’s going to try again, they_ want _Aladdin, and I - I don’t know what to do_....

Flopping down on the floor, Alan tried not to bawl.

* * *

Morgan’s nose twitched, bringing her news of hot water, plain soap, and tears. _Who’s crying?_

_Stop. This isn’t home. Make sure of your surroundings, first_.

Clean cotton sheets that smelled like Alan’s no-nonsense plain soap and shampoo; a Fanalis nose appreciated that, compared to the colognes and deodorizers most of her male classmates used every day. The linen and cotton of her school uniform, undisturbed from the day before; a faint tang of metal that meant she’d collapsed without even taking her earstuds out last night. And a scent of sand and teenager and ozone-crackling _power_.

Morgan opened her eyes a slit, enough to see a blue braid pressed up against the pillow between them. _Aladdin_.

A young magician who said he’d known them in another life. It probably sounded crazy to Alan, but Uncle Malachy said he’d heard rumors of magicians who did remember past lives. And it might explain the weird dreams she’d had last night-

Lips parted, Morgan tasted the air. _Uncle Malachy was here!_

Not a surprise; when she’d failed to turn up at home one of her guardians would have come looking for her. Even by air, her scent trail would have been clear. Her uncle had definitely been here, his scent lingering near the unlocked window. But it wasn’t strong enough for him to still be nearby.

_He didn’t take me home?_ Morgan’s brows flicked up, curious. _Does he like Alan? I told him Alan didn’t flinch at the breaking, and Aunt Shionne says that’s a good thing to look for in pridemates, but - he’s not Fanalis. I could hurt him_.

From the scent of those tears, someone already had.

Morgan shoved the pillow further into Aladdin’s sleepy octopus grip, and slipped quietly out of the bed. Padded across the floor to the window, where there was a new pair of shoes in her size, replacing the ones she’d destroyed yesterday, tucked under a brown paper bag that smelled like cedar.

_You brought me clean clothes_ , Morgan grinned, unrolling the bag just enough to check that it held one of her favorite Buffy t-shirts. _You do like him_.

Bag under her arm, she sat down cross-legged, and looked up into wet gold eyes. “Are you hurt?”

Alan blinked at her. “...No.”

“I’m surprised,” Morgan said neutrally. _He has bruises. I can see it in his stance. But he doesn’t consider that hurt_. “From what I saw, she meant to kill you, and help Callimachus take Aladdin.”

He paled.

_He’s not denying it_ , Morgan realized. _He knew_. “You didn’t let her.”

Silent, Alan hid his face in his hands.

Morgan moved closer, nudging his shoulder with her own. “You should talk to my uncle. He gives all of us the talk. It’s not easy to try and kill someone.”

“...I can’t believe I did that,” Alan managed.

_Uncle, I wish you were here_. “No one really does,” Morgan told him. “Not until it happens.” _What’d Uncle say to do next - right. Let him talk_. “So what happened?”

“I was just - walking by the shed....”  

It fit the little she’d been able to spot before she’d jumped into the fray; magical ambush, younger bystander in danger, and combatants who weren’t about to let Alan run for it. The fact that Aladdin had been magically chained, and Alan had broken it - that was different. “Those sound like Fomoire chains.”

Alan blinked, coming back to the present. “Fomoire?”

“Uncle says there’s as many names for them as there are magicians.” Almost, Morgan fingered the lockpick charm hidden in her sleeve. Fanalis didn’t usually have magoi to spare to make magical tools. But for the Key of Breaking, her family made an exception. “They drain magoi. Life-energy. The power of your spirit. Dark magicians use them to restrain other magicians. If they use them on someone with less magoi,” she met his gaze, dead-on, “they can be fatal.”

Alan flinched. Squared his shoulders, and looked right back at her. “You’re saying they walked into this....” He had to take a breath. “They came in ready to leave a dead body behind.”

_Yes. Yours_. Though Morgan wasn’t sure he was ready to hear that, as she tried not to tense up at the sound of sheets sliding behind her, and bare feet thumping on the floor. _Nobody_ was really ready to hear that. She hoped she would be, at least ready enough not to freeze when Phaenomena made another try, but - brr.

_Wait. Why hasn’t he laughed at me about magicians?_ Because _no one_ believed in magicians; not if they weren’t family. Or a magoi-user themselves-

_“You shouldn’t be sad.”_

Alan stared past her as if the blue-haired teen were more dangerous than she could ever be. Morgan would have scowled at that, if she didn’t half-think he was right. “...You still don’t speak English.”

Aladdin plopped down into a cross-legged seat on the floor casual as if he did it every day. _“You should never be sad for living. That’s what you told me, a long time ago in the desert. Ugo’d told me that, too, but it didn’t seem to mean as much, then. I knew about the Necropolis in our sanctuary, but I’d never seen someone die. Not until....”_ Chin on his hands, wide blue eyes stared up at both of them. _“You don’t remember?”_

“I don’t know what I remember,” Alan said warily. “Everything’s mixed up in my head. Did you do that?”

_He’s scared to trust anyone. Even a kid. What happened to him?_ “I don’t know what I remember, but I know what I saw,” Morgan stated. “You helped Alan, and you waited for me to get away. I’d call that a friend.” She gave him a shy smile. “But it is confusing. I think I know what you’re saying, but the words are all different.”

_“Oh, I can fix that!”_ Brightening, Aladdin reached out for their hands.

“How?” Alan muttered, only flinching a little as the younger boy wrapped fingers around his. “Because seriously, I don’t know what’s going on here but the last time I heard flying carpets were supposed to be in fairytales, not _rasayanashastra_ -”

Aladdin’s hand found hers, and the world _shifted_.

* * *

It was like being caught in the middle of a dust devil. Everything blurred, pieces whirling and falling together in an intricate tangle.

_Spiraling helix. Two sides touching, linked, but not the same_....

“Alibaba?”

“I’m not sure.” He opened his eyes, startled. The room looked so _odd_. Polished wood and so much cloth and no one here thought it was even _strange_ -

_She’s still cute_.

Damn fair complexion. He could feel his blush, almost as hot as the fever he-

_Wait. I’m not feverish anymore_.

He still felt awful, though. Like he hadn’t gone all-out in... years....

Startled, he looked into blue eyes.

“There you are!” Aladdin swarmed into a quick hug, then reached out to grab Morgan and pull her in to both of them again. “I’m not sure how long I can do this... well, I’m not sure how long I _should_ , messing with people’s memory is tricky. But Titus remembered us, even in a new life. I know you will, too. It’ll just take a while.”

“Titus was a Magi,” Morgan pointed out. Apparently not in the least upset that two guys had her in very close proximity.

_Still incredibly cute_. Alan sighed. _The universe likes her better. Which it should_.

“Well, yeah, but not a normal Magi, and - we’ll work it out!” Aladdin let go, and pointed at his shirt. “Can I talk to Amon?”

_Can you- right. There’s a Djinn living in my multitool._

_Why is this my life?_

Aladdin touched the Seal, and blue skin billowed out into reality.

Alan felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and found his arm knocking into Morgan’s as the massive, bearded humanoid worked kinks out of robed shoulders. Which made him feel a little better. After all, if _Morgan_ thought this was spooky, he could certainly eep, right?

“Magi.” Amon bowed to Aladdin, earrings glinting. “It has been some time since we have spoken face to face.”

“It has,” Aladdin nodded, “and I’m really glad to see you - but what were you _thinking?_ Why didn’t you go back to your dungeon? Alan’s magoi was so low, he almost- he could have-!”

“Hmm. That is true. But he did not.” The Djinn’s three eyes focused on Alan, who tried not to gulp. “You were in deadly peril, Magi; and with the seal of the Sanctuary broken, the others were forced to retreat to those places of magic we have in our keeping. They could not come to your aid, even if it meant the breaking of the world. But your teacher and I had a very long time to talk, while you slept in the mending of magic. And while we’d only spoken of possibilities - one explores a host of unlikely scenarios as the millennia pass - still, I knew that should there be an unexpected disaster, then I had another option. Though a dangerous one.”

_I know you_ , Alan realized. Looking into that gaze was like staring into a mirror of polished steel. He could see all his flaws, picked out in painful clarity. _I know you_.

“Ugo?” Aladdin’s eyes were wide and wondering. “Ugo thought this was a good idea?”

“Perhaps not a _good_ one,” Amon said judiciously. “More the best of many desperate alternatives. The balance of our world has been knocked askew by Callimachus’ rash action... but so long as you live, it will not be shattered.”

_Ugo_. Alan remembered flickers of a flute, and legs that could leap mountains, and a bashful Djinn that blushed from blue to pink at a pretty girl. _He wanted me as part of a plan to help Aladdin? Why me? Aladdin’s a Magi. I’m just- well,_ me.

“Alibaba Saluja’s rukh is bound to mine,” Amon stated; each word cutting deep. “Once the seal that kept the better part of his soul with you was shattered, we knew it would return to the rest.”

_The rest. What am I, leftovers? I_ -

_He’s trying to get me angry_.

Alan took a breath, determined not to shake. Amon was power. He could _feel_ that, in the way his nerves screamed to faint, _flee_ ; the way the walls seemed too fragile to hold him. Why would something that powerful bother trying to tick him off? Amon could squash him like a bug, any time he wanted.

And if that was the case, then he would, no matter what Alan did or didn’t do. So there was no damn point in acting cowed. Even if he was terrified out of his mind.

_Amon’s after something. I don’t know what. But I don’t care what he thinks. I’m not_ part _of anybody. I’m a whole person. I’m me!_

“But the compact was not reforged, Magi,” Amon went on thoughtfully. “Even with my power within his grasp, as the young Fanalis’ was returned to her. I gave myself into his keeping, yes, so that he might have the power to rescue you - but I had no dungeon to test him with, and should I let any but a heart worthy of a king hold the power of a Djinn?” Amon turned back to Aladdin. “Yet he did come to your aid, knowing nothing save that you were in deadly danger, and he might - _might_ \- be able to help. Do you choose him again?”

Aladdin rested his hands on his belt. “Of course I’d choose him. I’d _always_ choose him. But do _you_ choose him?”

Amon raised a bushy white brow. “Magi?”

“The world is different,” Aladdin shrugged. “I don’t know how much, yet. Alibaba and Morgiana promised they’d wait for me. But we didn’t ask _you_ to promise anything. You loaned us your power so I could help fix everything with the rukh after what happened with Al-Thamen, even though we knew it could take thousands of years to do it right. Well, I did. At least until Callimachus busted into the sanctuary and dragged me out.” Aladdin took a deep breath. “So what do you want?”

“...Hmm.” Weighty as a mountain, Amon turned his gaze back on Alan. “Do you remember what I am, young prince?”

“Bits and pieces,” Alan admitted. More now, he _remembered_ Amon now; unimpressed in a dungeon treasure chamber, a cautious voice whispering in his mind, a firm frown on the battlefield as he and his fellow Djinn demanded their chosen kings stop fighting each other and _do something_ about the black splorch of Evil invading the world. But who knew what he’d remember when Aladdin’s magic was over? “You’re the flame against the darkness.”

Amon nodded. “And will you fight that darkness?”

Alan swallowed. “I don’t know how to fight....”

Morgan’s eyes were on him. _Aladdin’s_ eyes were on him.

_No one should believe in someone they just met so much_.

His mom had looked at him with that same calm, utter confidence sometimes: _I know you, I know you have a plan_.

When she’d looked like that - he’d known she would have his back. No matter which way he chose to jump. Seeing that look here, now, from people who shouldn’t know anything about him except that he’d tried to jump between them and unearthly peril-

“I don’t know how to fight _yet_ ,” Alan said, heart in his throat. “Can you teach me?”

“You’ll learn, young king.” Amon reached out, dissipating back into the Seal. “You’ll learn.”

_Wait. Didn’t he call me prince before? Why did he_ -

A no-nonsense knock at his door. _“Is everyone decent in there?”_

Odd, hearing Miss Tanya Mallory’s English sound _alien_.

_“If you sneak down the back stairs, there’ll be breakfast in the kitchen in twenty.”_

Foreign words or not, Aladdin’s eyes lit, as his stomach growled.

_I guess some things don’t change_ , Alan thought, amused. “Morgan gets the bathroom first.”

* * *

Pancakes, Aladdin decided, were _delicious_. And tall, brunette Miss Tanya was absolutely awesome, managing the odd little not-wood stove so there were plenty of them and sausages and even _coffee!_

He’d really missed coffee.

_“You were caffeinated,”_ Alan had muttered under his breath as Aladdin inhaled his first cup. _“That explains_ so much _.”_

Pff. As if Alibaba hadn’t been just as fond of it. Morgiana, maybe not so much; but there wasn’t anything better on a cold morning in the desert. Or anywhere else.

_They’re different_.

Oh, sure, there were the obvious things; Alan’s hair, and Morgan’s height, obviously raised on better rations than slaves got. And the clothes, and the kind of weird lack of obvious weapons around. Nobody seemed to even carry a belt knife. And then there was their age.

_They’re only a little older than_ me.

Aladdin had to shake his head at that; he was so used to Alibaba being older. Maybe not a lot older, but that half-dozen years and growing up in the slums and the castle had given the third prince of Balbadd a _lot_ more experience with the real world.

Alan didn’t have that. Not yet.

_Guess that explains why he’s acting more like the caravan driver than the prince_ , Aladdin reflected. _Even if this looks more like a king’s mansion than that little room Alibaba had. I don’t know how hard his life’s been, without us - but he acts like Alibaba did before he believed in himself. He’s scared, so he doesn’t think he’s brave. But he_ is.

Well, maybe this time he knew enough to help better than Sinbad had. Throwing Alan into a fight with a few monsters - or the whole politically savvy _Kou Empire_ , Sinbad could really be a _jerk_ sometimes - was the wrong way to do it. Even if Aladdin knew Alan would survive, the terror of getting there would make figuring out he _could_ survive even harder.

No. If Alan didn’t think he could fight, then what they needed to do was _get him a teacher_.

Aladdin smiled through his orange slices. _And_ then _we can go hunt monsters_.

_“Now you’re making me nervous,”_ Alan said under his breath.

Aladdin blinked at him. _Who, me?_

_“Your uncle called and said it was fine for you to sleep over, Morgan.”_ Miss Tanya turned away from the stove. _“Lucky for all of you I’ve been through a few hurricane evacuations; I know what exhausted people look like. But I wouldn’t mention last night to your father, Alan.”_

_“No, ma’am,”_ Alan said quietly.

Aladdin frowned. The whispers of the rukh let him pick up most of what was being said, as long as Alan or Morgan understood it - but he couldn’t have heard that right. “What was wrong with last night?”

Miss Tanya was giving him a very thoughtful look. Aladdin tried to look as innocent as possible.

“People don’t usually sleep together in the same bed unless they’re married... around here,” Alan said carefully.

Okay, there was something _really weird_ about the world now. “That sounds kind of chilly. Is that why you had so many blankets?”

“Yeah, sort of....”

Miss Tanya eyed Alan. _“You understand what he’s saying? Who is he? Where is he from?”_

_“Yeah, I speak a little K’iche’-”_

_“A little_ what? _”_

_“You’d probably call it Mayan,”_ Alan shrugged. _“Real old mountain stuff. We knew some strange people in Massachusetts.... Hate to say it, but we didn’t ask for details. Aladdin was in trouble, and we weren’t much better off, so we just got the heck out of there before we got shot. He looked like the kind of guy who’d do that.”_

Miss Tanya started. _“What guy?”_

Alan gave her a level look. _“The one who had Aladdin in chains.”_

Miss Tanya’s eyes widened in disbelief, then narrowed in anger. _“We need to call the -.”_

Aladdin frowned. That word wasn’t quite _royal guards_ , or _city guards_ either.

_“No, no, we can’t call the cops!”_ Alan was waving his hands, like a young Alibaba trying to distract real city guards. _“I don’t think Aladdin has any papers!”_

“What papers?” Aladdin asked, confused.

Morgan hesitated, then nodded at Alan, so he’d translate that. And now Miss Tanya was giving all of them dubious looks.

_But she’s a good person_ , Aladdin thought. _All we have to do is explain. Right?_

_“All right.”_ Miss Tanya checked the stove knobs were all turned, and leaned a hand on one hip. _“Since you seem to understand English better than you speak it - who are you? Where are you from? And what happened?”_

“I’m Aladdin,” he shrugged. “I’m from a lot of places, but I kind of like Balbadd and Sindria. But we all ended up fighting Al-Thamen, and they... they tried to make it so if they couldn’t win with magic, no one else could either. They disrupted the whole flow, they meant to kill every Magi _forever_ , and if my friends hadn’t-”

It still hurt.

“I had two really good friends,” Aladdin made himself go on. “They gave me their magic, so I’d be okay while the world fixed itself.” Because they’d had enough time to talk about it with Sinbad and the other Magi, _just_ , and while Titus was willing to do what he had to for Marga’s world to be okay and Yunan had hinted at his own plans and Judar... well, no one was sure if what he’d done to help Judar would stick. And everyone had agreed that if this was going to work, three Magi had to be in the Sanctuary, in case Al-Thamen wasn’t as beaten as they thought. And frankly, he wasn’t an ordinary Magi and no one was sure he’d even survive as a human magician.

He’d wanted to try. He didn’t _want_ to leave everyone alone.

“So I was asleep in a sanctuary, only part in the world, for a long time. Then, I think it was about a moon ago, I woke up, and Callimachus started asking me all kinds of questions about the power of Solomon.” Aladdin rubbed his wrists, feeling a phantom ache. No wonder Morgiana had taken so long to be sure about what she wanted after she’d broken free. He still felt shaky, and he’d known someone was out there to save him. He couldn’t blame Titus for not helping, either; Ugo had been a little vague about what would happen to other Magi in the Sanctuary but he... kind of got the impression they wouldn’t _have_ physical bodies right away. “I couldn’t tell him what he wanted to know! Phaenomena - well, she was scary, but she said hurting me wouldn’t get them anywhere. Not yet.” He took a deep breath. “I told them hurting me wouldn’t get them anywhere _ever_ , because my friends would find me. Callimachus decided he’d find them first. So he did a divination spell, maybe a couple because he was having a hard time pinning it down - and then he found Alan. And Alan and Morgan kicked his butt, and we all got away!”

Miss Tanya stared, as Alan finished translating. _“Divination spells?”_

_“That’s what he said,”_ Alan shrugged.

_“Power of Solomon?”_

Alan nodded, gold eyes wide and almost innocent. _“I’m thinking, seriously homeschooled?”_

Aladdin had to cover a giggle with his hand. If being taught by Ugo counted, sure.

Miss Tanya shook her head, and looked at him again. _“Where are your parents? Your family?”_

“My parents have been dead a long time,” Aladdin said honestly. “My friends are my family.”

The lady was obviously wrestling with _something_. _“Chains.”_

_“Yeah,”_ Alan said unhappily. _“I was just lucky I could....”_ He hesitated.

Aladdin tried not to look too interested. Alan was bluffing. He wasn’t _lying_ , but he was bluffing.

_“Um.”_ Alan looked down at the kitchen table. _“I kind of know a little bit about locks?”_

_“And you think the police would care, if someone was being kidnapped?”_ Miss Tanya frowned at him.

_“Not the cops. My father. And... Mrs. Silversmith.”_ Alan tried for a casual shrug. _“It wouldn’t look good, right?”_

Miss Tanya was quiet a moment too long.

Aladdin looked between them, feeling a little cold and uneasy. Maybe it was the rukh flowing around them; bright, but silvery as moonlight, not the sun-gold of his own white rukh. He still wasn’t used to how it shimmered now, even though he’d been awake for weeks. Somehow he’d never realized all the work they’d done to reshape the Great Flow would even change how it looked.

It was still beautiful, swirling brighter with trust or contentment or hope; but shifting and subtle, delicate as mist, not the blazes and swarms of fluttering wings he was used to. It still answered him, flowing maybe even more eagerly to his call, whispering guidance like it’d been just waiting to share stories with a new friend. And that should be okay, that was what he and Ugo and everyone had been trying to do: reshape all the rukh so those Fallen to the black rukh could finally come home. So these shimmery clouds of soul-birds that shaded from ice-silver to moon-shadow - this should be right. Even if it did make him a little jumpy, and he missed the way it had been. Like the way silver had glimmered near-gold for a little while, when he’d reminded Alan and Morgan of being Alibaba and Morgiana....

No, it was more than just the rukh. The way Alan and Miss Tanya were looking at each other, or more like _not_ looking at each other - maybe Alan had a reason to be scared.

_“Mrs. Silversmith?”_ Morgan said curiously.

Alan’s expression tried not to give anything away. _“She’s not my mother.”_

_“Oh.”_ The Fanalis frowned. _“Your father remarried?”_

_“...No,”_ Alan stated. _“So if you don’t want anyone to know you were here, they won’t hear it from me. I wouldn’t do that to anybody else.”_ He straightened. _“Anyway. Miss Tanya, Callimachus dragged Aladdin here from_ somewhere, _and I kind of doubt he did it the legal way. And Aladdin doesn’t speak English! You want to dump him in the foster care system with people who can’t understand what he’s saying?”_

She gave him the kind of look Ja’far gave Sinbad when he’d picked up yet another lovely lady. _“And you have a better idea?”_

_“I thought we could talk to Principal Cavins,”_ Alan obliged. _“He was in Hollywood. They know all kinds of things about getting people in and out of countries, and how to smooth things over if somebody kind of accidentally got somewhere they shouldn’t. Right? So even if he doesn’t know, he should know somebody who does.”_ He smiled, just a little. _“The guy changed my whole schedule at the drop of a stage sword, so we should at least try to get him to help balance the mayhem.”_

_“He changed your schedule?”_ Miss Tanya bristled. _“Your father set up that schedule!”_

_“And mentioning that only makes our principal snicker,”_ Alan said wryly.

Morgan nodded once. _“Uncle Malachy says Principal Cavins is very enthusiastic about recruiting for his Theater track.”_

Aladdin looked at both of them, and Miss Tanya’s fuming disbelief, and decided he _had_ to meet this Principal Cavins.

_“You need to talk to your father about this,”_ Miss Tanya said firmly.

_“Right,”_ Alan said after a long moment. _“Do you think he’s going to be back from - what’s it this week, major conference on corporate law? - any time before midnight?”_

Aladdin winced. He didn’t know exactly what was going wrong here, but he was starting to be glad Callimachus had dragged him out a little early. Alan needed a friend. Even if all he could do to fix things was pull silly faces until Alan broke up laughing.

_“Mrs. Silversmith, then,”_ Miss Tanya insisted.

Mrs. Silversmith, who wasn’t Alan’s mother. Even Morgan winced at that one.

_“Guess I have to,”_ Alan sighed. _“But since last I heard she’s going to be hosting stuff with him most of today, I’d better get started on the new homework, first.”_

“Homework?” Aladdin wondered.

“Lessons,” Alan clarified.

“Oh!” Oh neat, he might get to find out something he’d _never_ had the chance to share with Alibaba. He knew enough of Alibaba’s past to figure out that the young prince must have studied like a demon to catch up on everything his half-brothers had absorbed just living in the palace all their lives. But he’d never seen Alibaba do it. “Can I see?”

Alan’s brows went up. “Sure, why not?”

_“A teenager who wants to do homework?”_ Miss Tanya shook her head, clearing off the stove. _“He’s definitely not from around here.”_

* * *

“Who is that boy?” Callimachus murmured, shoulder still swathed in a cloth of healing as he poked at his laptop calculations left-handed. Phaenomena glanced that way enough to read a few of the numbers, and determine he had to be checking the astrological charts of the time they’d lost the young magician. “Why was the Djinn’s power within him? And how could it resist a properly constructed Vessel, marked with Solomon’s own Seal?” He scowled. “And that magician’s rukh... Phaenomena. Have any of your contacts ever mentioned unusual rukh in this area?”

“Not that I’ve heard. I’ll put out some feelers.” Running her own more prosaic search by Internet, Phaenomena frowned. “Magister. How long has it been since anyone’s actually _seen_ a Djinn? Outside of Burton’s translations back in the 19th century.”

“Besides reports of unseen beings haunting ancient ruins, or taking the form of jackals to lay suspiciously unspecific curses on those who disturb the dead?” Callimachus didn’t lift his eyes from his calculations. “I admit it seems to have been centuries.”

“So it’s not history, it’s folklore,” Phaenomena summed up. Not that folklore meant automatically _wrong_ , she’d seen enough hunting for dragons, griffins, and stranger beasts with Callimachus over the past decade to know that. But still.... “Folklore changes things.” She nodded toward his calculations. “Have you seen what modern astrologists say about Hitler’s horoscope? ‘Gentle, moderate Taurus’, hell.”

Mentioning modern horoscopes got a snarl, as she’d known it would. The ancient alchemist had very strong opinions on the accurate transmission of knowledge and how the printing press had _failed horribly_ on some subjects.

_“-Idiots,”_ Callimachus summed up. “If Solomon’s power does allow one to lead others to enlightenment, one of the first things I’ll do is start a class in _accurate astrology_.”

And speaking of. “So why are you using calculations instead of just another finding spell?” she wondered.

“The phrase _pushing on a string_ comes to mind,” Callimachus grumped. “We had one end; that let us eventually reel in the other. At the moment, I have no such easy hooks to use to locate the pair of them. Much less the Red Lion girl.”

The Red Lions; the tribe the alchemists claimed held part of the Philosopher’s Stone, giving them inhuman vitality at the cost of their magic. She still had the bruises to prove it. Even channeling the spirit of an _ahosi_ warrior-maiden, giving her strength and reflexes beyond any normal human, had only evened the odds.

Though if she hadn’t been wearing the jacket Callimachus had enchanted for her, she might not have survived to fight the Red Lion girl. That blaze of fire....

_The mouse-haired boy can use fire magic. That makes him hazardous._

_He’s willing to kill. That makes him_ dangerous.

She hadn’t expected that. Not in the good part of this sleepy coastal tourist town. Even in the bad part of town a kid his age should have blustered and postured, giving her a dozen openings to kill him in the first moments of her assault.

He hadn’t. Instead, the young fire-mouse had slid into lethal combat as if he’d been killing for a dozen lifetimes, dodging every strike she made while in turn making a determined effort to slash every major artery she had.

_Vicious little thing. Too bad he’s not on our side_.

A bloodthirst that made sense, if Callimachus was right, and that little Ala’-adin had managed to summon a warrior spirit even without a wand. Some magicians could manage low-level spells with only their hands and voice. She’d never run into a teenager who could wave up more than a spark, but there was a first time for everything.

_If he did, he got damn lucky_.

Both boys had. Working with a warrior spirit took patience, a willingness to share a body that had previously only held one soul, and no little amount of luck to find a spirit that fit against yours in the first place.

_But now that this one’s found our Fire-Mouse, it’ll be back_.

Phaenomena knew that well. Even now she could feel some of her own spirits nudging at her, wanting to move, fight, _kill_.

_It’ll push its host to fight. To train. To be_ ready. _And that girl who knows him_ is _a Red Lion_ , Phaenomena reflected. _That kind of magical strength and speed needs an outlet somewhere_.

To her search, she added _local martial arts dojos_.

* * *

“Sword lessons,” Alan huffed between strides, as the three of them ran down sidewalks past flower shops, banks, and bait stores, only pausing to cross early afternoon traffic toward the little group of storefronts that held the MacLea dojo and Tiburon’s salle. “Who gets to put _Saturday sword lessons_ on a school schedule?”

“Principal Cavins,” Morgan said serenely. This was a good run. Not too long, and not as fast as she could flit on her own, even carrying all her books. And there wasn’t much anyone could do about the headachy stench of fresh asphalt from recent road repairs. But you could smell the sea breeze and fall-blooming beach rosemary, and the run was long enough to stretch the energy that had flooded into her a month ago. It felt good.

Almost too good. Running with Alan was like running with family. Not so much in the speed, as in the swift flow of attention.

_Scan the persimmon tree, roots to crown. Flick over the brick wall - looking for handholds? Note the skaters and the man walking his Dalmatian and the oversized pickup passing, weaving a little close to the white line_....

Obstacles. Threats. Ambush points. Escape routes. Alan saw them.

_Who taught him? I want to thank them_.

And maybe grab them and shake them a little. Because how could any good teacher let him get away?

“Couldn’t we,” Aladdin panted, “just fly there? It’s really hot....”

“It’s Florida. It’s supposed to be hot.” Slowing down just a little, Alan shook his head. “I’ve been sick for _weeks_ , and I can do this. Come on. It’s not that long a run.”

“Well I’ve been _asleep_ for something like a _thousand years!_ ”

“Excuses, excuses....”

Morgan frowned. That tone was so _wrong_. Alan was being friendly, sure; amazingly friendly, given he’d met Aladdin in the mystical equivalent of a back-alley mugging. But he was acting like her cousins talking to some of their younger self-defense students. Sure, kids they liked and felt responsible for, but not-

_A partner_.

_They’re supposed to be partners_.

She could feel it, just as she could feel that Alan was supposed to be _right there_ fighting with her. All her defenses felt stronger just knowing he existed. Whatever the battle, whatever the odds, she knew Alan would pull them through. By the skin of his teeth, if he had to.

_We’re supposed to be together. I can feel it_.

Uncle Malachy had taught her to trust her feelings. But he’d also taught her to take them out and look at them, to make sure she didn’t get in over her head just because she trusted someone. And she _did_ trust Aladdin.

_But I don’t know him. Not now. I did know him, I can feel it. But I can’t remember what we were, in those other lives. What we survived. What we faced together_.

_Bits and pieces_ , Alan had told Amon. Which meant he probably didn’t remember that much more than she did. So... he could probably feel that pull too, but he didn’t know _why_.

_And he wasn’t lucky enough to have Uncle Malachy_. Morgan mulled that as she ran. _Uncle would say... we can’t just live in the past. If we should trust each other - then we need to learn who we all are_ now. _Then all the pieces will take care of themselves_.

And if she was going to rely on Alan as her partner, she had to start showing him that he didn’t have to watch over everyone alone. Partners looked after each other. “You’ve been sick?” Morgan frowned. “Aladdin. You said Amon did something to Alan’s magoi.”

“Yeah, I- _gah_ -”

“Less than a block now, right? We should slow down anyway.” Alan dropped to a fast walk, pacing the younger boy as his shoulders heaved. “Magoi. You said that’s... life-energy, right? What people use to do magic?”

Morgan raised a brow, and nodded. “A lot of people call it ki these days. My family’s old-fashioned.”

“Sounds like... Kou Empire....” Getting his breath back, Aladdin gave Alan a worried look. “Don’t you remember?”

“Not like I did this morning, when you were pushing it,” Alan shrugged, trying for casual. “I think I’ve got most of the important bits. So what the heck was Amon doing? He’s a _Djinn_. I’m not a Magi! Part of my rukh was with him? First of all, why would anybody split up their own soul, and second of all - I don’t even _have_ a second of all! It doesn’t make sense! He was with you! If he didn’t want to hang out in a dungeon, why didn’t he just go with you?” Alan paused. “Dungeon. You know, yesterday, I would have thought about dank, empty castles. Today? _Oh god run_.”

“You never ran from a dungeon!” Aladdin bit his lip. “And... I know it was scary, and really taking a chance, but I don’t think Amon thought he could wait.”

Alan gave him a long look, stepping aside to dodge a bicyclist hogging the sidewalk. “Wait? Why the hell would he have to wait? You were in trouble, and he knew it-”

“All the Djinn knew it!” Aladdin burst out. “But they’re _not my Djinn!_ ”

Alan stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“ _Yes_ I’m serious, Djinn need _a lot_ of magoi and when Callimachus broke in there wasn’t enough, and they aren’t my Djinn _anyway_ so I can’t support them unless I’m _really not busy_ and those chains were _awful_ and-”

_“Breathe,”_ Alan said sharply.

Aladdin was almost hiccupping, eyes suspiciously wet. “I saw... I woke up soon enough to see Ugo get them out, he wanted to help me but he _couldn’t_ , we couldn’t let Callimachus get a Metal Vessel. And he... he trusted me to be able to take care of myself, long enough for you two to find me....”

Alan glanced at Morgan, as if he hoped she’d have an idea what to do if Aladdin actually started crying. She was kind of hoping _he_ did. Aladdin being sad _hurt_.

From the look in gold eyes, Alan was willing to scoop the kid up if the waterworks started. “I wish we had,” he admitted. “But we didn’t-”

“You _did_ ,” Aladdin insisted. “It doesn’t matter if you were looking. Our destinies are tied, all three of us. Anything that comes after me has to come through you two first, and Amon _knows_ that. He knew a magician was coming after you; a powerful magician, someone even the old you would have had a problem with if he caught you off guard. And he knew you didn’t remember _anything_.” Aladdin took a breath, and stared up at him. “All he had was a few seconds to choose, and he knew you were hurt already. If he went to his dungeon you might have been dead before you could find him again. Coming to you was as close as he could get to helping both of us. And he had to protect his king. Even if it hurt you.”

Alan almost missed a step, barely avoiding stumbling on a crack in gray concrete. “I’m not a king!”

“You’re Amon’s king. And you’re _my_ king.” Mischief glinted in blue eyes. “Get used to it.”

“Avoiding the question,” Morgan pointed out, lowering her voice as they passed near some tourists studying postcard maps. “Why was Alan sick?”

“Because Djinn take a _lot_ of magoi.” Aladdin’s feet scuffed sand; he’d only agreed to wear sandals after Alan hit him with a few horror stories about creeping eruption. Morgan sympathized. She hated shoes, too. “I... kind of think maybe he didn’t realize how much it’d take, to hang onto you and _not_ put himself in a Vessel. Probably most of everything you had. It’s kind of surprising you were still walking, unless....” Aladdin peered up from under blue brows, eyes suddenly wide. “Oh.”

“Oh, what?” Alan said warily.

“...We can’t check here,” Aladdin sighed. “Too many people.” His smile was bright, and just a little sad. “But I think, maybe... you might have had some help.”

* * *

_Never thought I’d set foot in a place like this_.

Alan shifted on his feet as Morgan exchanged some soft words with her Uncle Malachy. This whole place made him nervous. Scuffed hard concrete floor by the door, the rest covered with some kind of rubber matting to soften a fall; odd things hanging on chains, bits of steel and wooden planks piled in one corner near a mirror, and the guy in charge wearing faded denim and a white t-shirt. This was _not_ what he thought of as a martial arts dojo.

Aladdin didn’t look at all perplexed, instead sitting down against one wall with a sharp little knife he’d had on him who knew where, whittling away at a branch of twisted mulberry Alan had rescued for him from the yard cuttings. Because, as he’d said before, he intended to be politely busy so Alan and Malachy could _talk_ before Alan had to head next door to the sword lessons....

_Talk_. Alan glanced at the tall, muscular redhead almost looming over Morgan, and started edging toward the door. _I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to_ think _about it_.

Because if he started thinking about the fact that there was someone who’d tried to kill him out there, someone _he’d_ tried to kill, then all he’d be able to do was hide inside walls. And that would mean he couldn’t run. And freerunning was the only thing that kept him sane these days and he was _not_ giving it up.

_It’s what we do in my family_ , Alan thought, swallowing a lump; remembering how his mom’s eyes would light up when she caught a government employee shading the truth. The same way they lit when she brought him to a new feature they hadn’t tried moving over before, a bit of building or new railing or even a just-dropped-off storage container, and asked him how he’d tackle it. _Dig out the facts, then run like hell. It’s our job to get information out there so people can make up their own minds. Fighting... that’s for people who can afford to get hurt_.

Yes, he’d kind of promised Amon. And yes, he wanted to keep Aladdin safe. But he’d promised Maria first, and there had to be a way to keep yet another lost kid out of danger that didn’t involve getting cornered by huge guys with muscles like steel cables who could snap him like toothpicks-

“Huh.”

Hand on the door handle, Alan froze, skin crawling on the back of his neck. _Oh hell_.

Malachy was a few feet away, arms crossed, fingers of his right hand tapping against his forearm. “For someone who doesn’t have training, you’re pretty good at sneaking.”

_I practiced dodging cops. There’s at least three street gangs that still want a piece of me, if they can catch me. And how can anybody live down here at street level, try dodging into a culvert or a storm drain and you’re likely to wind up half drowned_....

No. There was no safe answer to that.

So Alan smiled instead, and shrugged. “Saw your hours on the door. You’re going to be busy in a bit, even if Miss MacLea is helping out. It was nice of her to help me study, Principal Cavins really pulled a surprise on me, but I’m going to do my best to take it from here. I’m due next door in a little bit anyway. Won’t take up anymore of your time.” He waved at Aladdin. “Come on, we should leave the sawdust outside.”

Looking up from half-peeled wood, Aladdin frowned at him, then Morgan, standing startled in the middle of the echoing room. _“But you said you were going to talk to Uncle Malachy.”_

“You’d better listen better,” Alan said, not taking his eyes off Morgan’s uncle. “ _I_ didn’t say anything like that. Miss MacLea? Are you and your uncle okay? Good. Sorry about any misunderstanding, won’t happen again-”

“You’re afraid,” Morgan said, eyes wide and bewildered.

“What was your first clue?” Alan muttered. “He’s your guardian.” _And I’m not doing that to anyone else_.

Which hurt. He loved his mother. But what she and his father had done, what their hometown had made it clear _they’d_ do to him if any other girl _went astray_ \- no.

_I’m out of here_.

He had his hand on the door. All he had to do was open it. Upset girl, father figure - he knew how this would go if he stayed.

Only Malachy didn’t look angry. It was _weird_.

The man huffed a breath, looking like he understood something and didn’t like it. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

No safe answer to that one, either.

_Might as well get it over with and get hurt, then_. “That’s not what her cousins said,” Alan stated. “Seems we got off on the wrong foot. Or fist. I didn’t get which one was cracking his knuckles. It all kind of blurred together into scary redheaded guys making it clear their cousin was off limits for cheesy lines if I wanted to keep my teeth.” He had to take a breath; the room was kind of hot and misty around the edges. “They didn’t do anything _but_ that, but....”

_But they acted like they wanted to hurt me and now someone_ did _try to kill me and I_ stopped _her and if they tried to jump me like_ she _jumped me I could_ kill them-

“Ice water,” Malachy ordered, somewhere out there in the gray. “And salt. Sit down. _Alan_. I said-”

_“Rest, warrior. I have the watch.”_

Morgan’s voice. Words that meant _safety, stand down; you can sleep, because nothing can sneak up on a Fanalis and live_.

Large hands caught his shoulders, kept his knees from giving out completely. But - that was okay. These were safe hands. Morgan had said so.

_“What’s wrong?”_ Aladdin’s hand found his as Alan sat on the floor, warm with more than just body heat. _“This place is safe; if Masrur’s here, it has to be safe. Are you still hurt? I thought you were okay!”_

Cool cotton pressed against his forehead. Alan leaned into it, trying not to think.

“Aftershocks,” Malachy stated. “Did your cousins lean on him that hard, Morgan?”

“I told them I can take care of myself!”

“Your aunt and I will talk to them. Again,” Malachy said dryly, fingers rubbing tight shoulders. “Making muscles at drooling idiot teenagers is acceptable. Pushing a survivor into a corner is suicidal.”

Quiet pressure where everything felt knotted. Cool shadows. And _no questions_.

Slowly, the room came back into focus.

“Okay,” Alan got out, a little ragged. “That... was scary.”

“Northerners.” Malachy shook his head a little. “You never think about the humidity.”

Alan blinked at him, then clapped a hand to his forehead. _Argh. Idiot_.

Hot up north was brutal, but drier. Hot down here right smack on the coast when you could squeeze the air like a sponge? Sweating didn’t work to cool you down, so you did _more_ of it, and bam went your electrolytes.

Chastened, Alan accepted very salty chips and a tall plastic mug of water. “Thanks.”

Malachy waited until half the chips disappeared - Aladdin had moved in to munch a few, kid probably needed them - then gave him a level look. “So you know better than that.”

Alan winced. Yeah. He usually did. Damn it.

“Which means you know you need to clear your head,” Malachy went on, calm and collected as if they were still just talking about the weather. “Because your life depends on it.”

... _Oh. Great_.

But Malachy was right. His life. Aladdin’s life. Morgan’s life. Because Callimachus was going to be back, he knew that as sure as he knew the sun was coming up tomorrow morning. People going after a Djinn’s power didn’t just quit. And people going after Solomon’s Wisdom....

_People like that don’t just kill you. They kill cities. Nations. Worlds_.

_They have to be stopped_.

Oh boy.

Alan rubbed his forehead, trying to knead his thoughts back into order. Funny; that level of world-might-end terror seemed to wash over him like a wave, sucking away nerves to leave behind a weird petrified calm.

_Can’t save Maria if the world ends, right?_

Right. So... helping Aladdin _was_ helping Maria. Meaning it was time to grit his teeth and focus, no matter how scary it was. “I don’t know how to fight.”

“I’ll help,” Malachy said steadily. “Though Tiburon can teach you blades better than I can. We’ll get him adopted into the clan sooner or later.” He raised a hand before Alan could protest. “The first rule of self-defense is go with your strengths. Someone’s trying to kill you, and you already have good instincts with a blade. _Use them_.”

Alan had to swallow. “How... how do you know I...?”

“Morgan told me you fought someone she wasn’t sure she could beat.” Malachy smiled, just a bit. “And you’re still alive.”

_“Why is he so surprised?”_ Aladdin bumped Alan’s arm with his knuckles. _“Of course you know how to use a blade. You’re one of the best! You even give Sharrkan a hard time.”_

_Do not freak. Think_. Morgan was translating for Malachy in the background, and Aladdin was polite enough to wait while she did. So he had a moment. What could he- yeah. “Only I _don’t_ know,” Alan made himself say. “I... remembered _something_ , when you were in trouble. But I don’t _know_ it.”

Morgan was looking at him, almost frowning. Glanced at Aladdin. “But you think we will remember.”

Blue hair nodded once. _“I know you will.”_

“Hm.” Malachy gave the little Magi a level stare. “Bringing back past memories? That sounds like dangerous magic.”

“I’ll take the danger,” Alan said bluntly.

Malachy frowned. “Phaenomena is that skilled?”

“Yes,” Morgan started. “She was trying to kill us-”

Alan shook his head. “That’s not why.”

_Flying carpets. Fire. A Djinn who calls me king_.

“You told Callimachus someone would come to rescue you,” Alan said, looking into blue eyes. “And... you were out there, and I _couldn’t_ , because I _didn’t remember_ -”

_“That’s not your fault!”_

“Doesn’t matter. You’re my friend. And you trusted me.” Alan sat up straight. “If anybody could believe in me that much... I want to remember _why_.”

_Because with an alchemist and a killer martial arts lady out there - remembering might be the only chance I’ve got to figure out how to do it_ twice.

* * *

_Danger doesn’t scare him, but people do_ , Malachy concluded, as Alan finally uncoiled enough to start giving details of his fight against magic, and then against Phaenomena. _That’s not just being kidnapped. He’s been trapped in situations where he couldn’t physically fight his way out, for a long time_.

Not _just_ being kidnapped. At the moment Malachy wasn’t sure who he’d like to lightly maim more; Simon Cavins, or one Richard Silversmith, corporate attorney at law. Though at the moment Silversmith was leading. Simon had at least admitted he might have caused part of the problem.

“Will calls to will, and magic to magic,” Simon had said on the phone last night, calling to warn Malachy about the ill-intentioned pair he thought Morgan might have crossed paths with. “I pushed Alan hard enough to get a spark out of him, and your niece has been watching him ever since. I don’t know yet why a martial artist and a magician attacked them, but it may have been my fault.”

“Would have happened eventually,” Malachy had shrugged, even as he’d run through a quick checklist of where Shionne and his boys were, who to call next to put the clan on alert, and where Morgan might have stashed her emergency shoes. “You keep pushing people to be heroes, sooner or later you’ll lure out a villain.”

“So Ja’far keeps telling me,” Simon had said wryly. “One of these days I’m going to beat Fate and get you two to meet.... Ah. Right. Malachy, I don’t know if it makes a difference compared to everything else but there are some facts about Alan Ryans I don’t have in my file.”

Chief among those missing facts, as far as Malachy was concerned, was that Principal Simon Cavins, one of the most charming and persuasive men Malachy had ever met, hadn’t been able to pin down a coherent story on exactly who had allowed Richard Silversmith to pluck a seriously ill teenager out of Massachusetts.

“Best case scenario, Mr. Silversmith was trying to leave a few things murky so Alan might avoid some of the trouble he’s undoubtedly had in the past, being the son of an unwed mother,” Simon had concluded; highly tactful, for him. “Worst case....”

“Noncustodial parent kidnapping,” Malachy had summed up.

Right now, watching Alan actually relax as he described trying to survive hand-to-hand combat, worst case looked like it wasn’t bad _enough_. Damn it.

That didn’t even begin to consider the mess that was remembering past lives. And Malachy had no doubt the boy was. Morgan had told Alan to _stand down_ , in the old tongue - and the young man had _understood_.

_He’s not Fanalis. But part of him knows us_.

He definitely had to have words with Dougal and Ianatan. Half the reason Alan was terrified was that the teenager had just come face to face with the fact that he _would_ , under the right circumstances, try to kill someone. MacLeas were raised with that reality. The rest of the world, not so much.

_He knows he will. He doesn’t know yet when he won’t_ , Malachy thought. _Hate to say it, but this is no time to bring in the cops. Aladdin gave us names, but those are probably their_ mystical _names, not the ones they’re using on regular paperwork. Go to the police with names that sound that crazy, and the cops would separate the three of them while they tried to figure out where Aladdin belongs. And that would give this alchemist the perfect opening_.

And the way Alan had looked at Aladdin, wanting to believe he was worth believing in... Callimachus getting his hands on the young magician would end very badly for someone. Given his niece was one of those mixed up in this mess, Malachy had a vested interest in making sure that never happened.

Not to mention an active and itchy bump of curiosity. The moment he’d walked into the MacLea dojo, Aladdin had blinked, and _smiled_ at him. As if he’d spotted an... old friend.

Given the boy had already said he’d known Morgan in a past life, that was a little disturbing.

“And then Morgan jumped up on the flying carpet, and things get a little fuzzy,” Alan admitted. “I guess we got back to... where I live. And keeled over.” He was more than a little red. “Nothing happened.”

“Not true,” Morgan deadpanned. “You snore.”

Aladdin smothered a giggle. Alan went even redder.

“Have fun teasing your boyfriend later,” Malachy said, just as flat.

Alan looked two shades short of spontaneously combusting. “No, wait, wha-!”

“Hand,” Malachy ordered.

With a pained groan, Alan let him take it.

Malachy poked and prodded with trained fingers, sensing the flow of blood and magoi. _Dominant right, not in bad shape... huh. Actually in pretty good shape, if you’re not looking for gym muscles. Wiry kid. Runner and climber;_ strong _hands. But I doubt he’s thrown more than a few punches in schoolyard brawls. He’ll have to change that quickly. I wonder how much energy he has to work with_ -

Sparks of silver light flared around his poking finger.

Malachy stopped, eyeing that pressure point with deep suspicion. No. No, that was just _ridiculous_.

“Um.” Alan shook out his arm, as if he just couldn’t keep it still any longer. “That kind of tickled?”

Knife nibbling bark off his stick, Aladdin grinned. Called out a question to Morgan, who looked almost as dubious as Alan.

“He says he’s seen Uncle Sinbad check magoi before,” Morgan said, “and he’s glad your way is a little less... showy?”

“Subtle is good,” Malachy said dryly. Though usually his technique was a lot more subtle than that. On his own family, he’d have felt a little more warmth than skin and muscle could account for; Fanalis didn’t have much free magoi, and that was all there was to it. On most martial artists - maybe a slight wavering, like heat-shimmer. He’d only seen actual sparks on a _very_ few people, two of whom were in this town. One of them was Simon. The other... well. He was right next door.

_Tiburon doesn’t know anything about magic_. Malachy was smiling, and knew it was scary by the way his current victim went two shades paler. _Alan has a magical weapon, and the strength to use it_.

_...Oh, this is going to be_ so much _fun_.

* * *

“So this is a sword practice hall?” Aladdin stepped onto polished wood with relief; that weird _rubber_ next door in Masrur’s training hall might work for falling on, but it was just too different. And in a world filled with different, enough was _enough_ already. “Neat.”

The rukh around him shimmered, like everything was falling onto a brighter path. He looked up at the swordsman heading their way - dark hair, sleepy gray-green eyes, dressed in some kind of really short blue robe and white trousers, closest thing he’d seen to home yet-

_Sharrkan!_

His skin was way too pale, and his hair was as dark as if Yamraiha had dumped her whole inkpot on his head. But the rukh was unmistakable. Silver, not gold, and not as bright as it should be, no one seemed to be quite right, but definitely Sinbad’s General and swordmaster. Aladdin lunged for him in utter, sudden _relief_. “Oh good, you’re here!” _Because I can’t do this all on my own and I know Morgiana’s got Masrur, she should be fine, but Alibaba_ always _has trouble believing in himself, he can get through this if he just has a little help and you’re one of the best_ -

_“...Hi?”_ The swordsman glanced down at him, apparently unfazed by having a Magi thump into him for a hug. _“Funny, Simon’s phone call described someone else.”_ His words sounded oddly clipped, next to Morgan’s soft tones and Alan’s quick speech that sang of merchants and being heard in crowds. As if, wherever Sharrkan had come from in this life, it was really as far away as Heliohapt had been from Balbadd.

And then familiar eyes glanced up, suddenly not sleepy at all. _“Ah. Alan Ryans?”_

_“I am not running,”_ Alan was muttering under his breath, as Morgan whisper-stepped up to Aladdin and Masrur leaned against the wall inside the door. _“I... um. Mister Tiburon. I didn’t set this up-”_

_“I’m sure you didn’t,”_ the swordsman said wryly. _“Simon called me last night.”_

_“He did?”_ Alan shook his head. _“Why am I even surprised....”_

_“He also said something very odd,”_ the swordsman went on. _“That you were going to need live steel.”_ His face went very still. _“I do teach that. Usually to stuntmen, very wary actors, and possibly a few people who show up at odd hours who you will_ never _mention seeing, because they_ aren’t here. _You don’t look like any of those. Now, I trust Simon. But you look half scared to death. And Simon has a way of bulldozing people into things against their better judgment.”_ He folded his arms. And waited.

Alan braced himself, and latched onto Aladdin. _“Mister Tiburon? This is Aladdin.”_

_Sharrkan doesn’t remember_. Aladdin swallowed, but smiled up at the man. Masrur was Morgan’s uncle, this time around. Whoever Sharrkan was now, Aladdin knew he was still on their side.

_“I don’t know if you’d believe me if I explained, but - there’s someone after him,”_ Alan stated. _“And we_ can’t _go to the cops.”_

Tiburon eyed Aladdin, and suddenly his face wasn’t friendly at all. _“You’re his bodyguard?”_

_“I’m his friend.”_

_“That’s a heavy burden to lay on a friend.”_

Alan shrugged. _“She tried to kill me, too. And Morgan. And I’m not planning on dying, I....”_

Aladdin lost track of the strange words. There was something else stirring the currents of the rukh around Sharrkan and Masrur.

Curious, he reached out to it.

Ooo. That was neat. Those little expressions Sinbad’s Generals were having were a conversation all by themselves!

Sharrkan’s raised, weirdly dark brow: _Seriously? Simon wants me to train_ this _guy?_

Masrur’s slight nod: _It’s Simon. Yes, he does_.

The other dark brow went up. _Are you sure?_

Masrur’s fingers twitched toward himself. _Just attack him already_.

He was _not_ going to laugh, Aladdin told himself. Laughing would spoil the whole thing. Even if it made his ribs hurt, watching Sharrkan’s brows trying to climb straight into his hair.

Masrur pursed his lips in a frown, then fluttered his hand. _Spar. No warning_.

Sharrkan shrugged. _Okay_....

_“And really, I-_ Aiiiiyeee-! _”_

Alan dove sideways, as a sword whistled through the air. The swordsman followed, grinning like a shark as he wove a net of glittering steel. _“You’re right; he_ does _have good reflexes!”_

* * *

Morgan was _not_ going to jump up and down squealing. Or hug herself in glee. No. Not dignified. Especially in front of Uncle Malachy. Particularly given the ongoing low-level competition between MacLea martial arts students and Tiburon’s swordsmen that her guardians kept threatening to end by kidnapping Tiburon into the clan. So far Tiburon had laughed it off, saying he’d already disappointed two sets of relatives in Britain and Egypt, no need to pull off a hat trick.

One of these days, they’d talk him into valuing himself. Until then, as a MacLea, Morgan had a vested interest in promoting fists over steel.

But this was _awesome_.

_Dodge, yes, but why’d your foot go- oh,_ yes, _flip up the bokken and come at him from an angle... not your weapon, too long, but you blocked him for- huh?_

She’d expected Alan to hang onto the bokken. Why discard a useable weapon, overlong or not?

From the flicker of a stunned look before he had to parry flung wood, Tiburon had expected that too.

Alan used the distraction to get past Tiburon’s reach, snatching up one tonfa of a pair the swordsman had had lying against a pair of weights. From his grimace, that wasn’t the weapon he wanted either; but he flipped it around in his grip, hooked steel to skim past him, and surged inside Tiburon’s range to land a punch to his solar plexus-

Tiburon was fast; it hit ribs instead. He coughed and swung around, steel biting into oak, keeping his grip when a less-trained swordsman would have had the hilt swing loose in numbed hands.

Alan swung with the turn, staying close, denying Tiburon the advantage of reach and leverage. Morgan could see gold eyes hunting for openings, advantages, _something_ to outweigh the fact that the swordsman was taller, stronger, and had edged steel to his own now nicked and splintering oak-

_“Here!”_

Alan snatched steel out of the air, as Morgan almost clapped a hand to her forehead in disbelief. Honestly, she took her eyes off Aladdin for _one minute_ and he was into Tiburon’s live steel. Though why with all those options Aladdin would pick a plain combat knife-

Then Alan _moved in_ with the knife, and her hair stood on end.

_They’re fast!_

And Tiburon had a grin on his face she’d only seen when he and her uncle were going flat out; the look of a man right up against the edge of a cliff, enjoying the breeze. He parried, braced - tried to take Alan’s feet out from under him with a sweep, which Alan casually _hopped over_ -

_“Hold!”_

Steel hung in the air, and halted.

Hand still lifted in case he had to physically separate them, her uncle took a deep, relieved breath. “Back with us?”

“...Yeah,” Alan managed. “Think so.” He glanced at Tiburon, who was just now lowering his sword. “Are you okay?”

“Am _I_ okay?” Tiburon grinned like a shark. “Oh, I’m just _fine_.”

“Good,” Alan breathed. Turned his back, and headed for Aladdin with a determined glint in his eye.

No dummy, the magician started backing up.

_“What the hell did you think you were doing?”_

* * *

“Um....” Aladdin was trying to look innocent. And not pulling it off quite as well as usual. “Helping?”

_Right_ , Alan thought. _What’s that saying, with friends like these?_ “You do not help by throwing a knife into the middle of a melee!”

Aladdin was backing up a little faster now. “But I knew you’d catch it!”

_Augh!_ “ _I_ didn’t know that!”

Blue eyes blinked up at him. “...Oops?”

Oops? _Oops?_ “We are never letting you near the Leaning Tower of Pisa,” Alan swore. “What idiot gave you that idea? You don’t even know how to throw a knife! This-” he whirled, aiming for a calendar on the wall, if there was a pin there it was safely away from anything electrical, “is how you throw a knife!”

_Huh. I just killed Wednesday_.

_...I just threw that. And it worked_.

Tiburon cleared his throat. _“So who trained you?”_

It was like hauling into the wind. And how he knew that, when he’d never been on a sailing ship in his life.... Alan shook his head, almost bodily dragging his brain from Aladdin’s tongue back into English. “Sorry,” he said, hoping it was the right words. “Could you say that again?”

“I was saying,” Tiburon said, very thoughtfully, “that I don’t recognize your style. Now, that’s not impossible, I don’t know every knife technique out there. But I’ve seen most of them. Who taught you?”

_Oh boy_. “Would you believe me,” Alan said, very carefully, “if I said that a week ago, I thought I’d never picked up a knife in my life?”

Tiburon stared at him. Alan stared back.

The swordsman broke first, snickering behind his fist. “Oh, good one!” The upper-crust British accent was just a little crisper, an odd contrast to the almost Californian choice of words. “Let me guess - you washed up on shore with a head wound and no clue except a name sewn into your underwear? Because believe me, I’ve seen head trauma and amnesia, and they don’t work that way.”

“No, I know who I am,” Alan sighed. _Though maybe I don’t know who I_ was.

Tiburon raised an eyebrow, and held out a hand, palm up. “So. Who taught you?”

Alan shrugged, and waved at the blade still stuck in Wednesday. “That’s the first time I ever picked up one of those.”

“That’s impossible.” Tiburon’s words were light, but his eyes were deadly serious. “I’ve seen amateur knife fighters. Some pretty good ones, even just by instinct. I know exactly how they stand.” Plucking the knife from the calendar, he spread his arms in a crouch, right hand leading, right foot forward.

_There are openings all through that_ , Alan thought.

... _Either I’m getting used to this, or I’m going numb_.

“And this is how _you_ stand.”

Upright, blade out straight, left arm behind his back and fisted. An even, ready stance, that could adjust to any approaching threat with only a slight shift of feet, presenting the smallest possible target for his opponent.

Tiburon shook his left arm out, and eyed Alan, head to toe. “That’s not knife-fighting. Oh, you can use it that way. But that? That’s a _short sword_ stance. And no one takes a stance like that by instinct. So. Who was your teacher?”

_Yeah, this is going to go over well_. “...Do you believe in past-life regressions?”

“About as much as I do in amnesia,” Tiburon said wryly. “If there’s a reason you can’t tell me....” His head tilted, like a jay spotting a bit of sugary cruller on the roadside. “Cheerleading? Dance lessons?”

“What?” Alan choked out. Damn it, what was it about the crazy people down here that wouldn’t let him stop blushing? Because there was something tickling at his mind like a half-remembered dream, that dance and swords-

“Dance and swordstyles both depend on footwork.” Tiburon sheathed his blade. “Which is a shorthand way of saying they both depend on knowing where your body is in space at any given moment. I have a fair number of Simon’s cheerleaders taking classes here at least twice a week. Pom-poms, my bloody foot; if you want to intimidate the other team at half-time, there’s nothing like a squad of sword-dancers-”

From his desk, a cell phone buzzed.

“Excuse me,” Tiburon said abruptly. “I have most numbers blocked during lessons. The only people who can get through are....” He flipped open the phone, brows raising at the number. “Hello?”

“Tiburon!” The voice was crackly with static, yet somehow clear enough to hear across the room. “Help!”

“Ja’far?” Tiburon said incredulously.

Aladdin started at the name.

Tiburon glanced his way, and shook his head. “What did he do this time?”

“How did you know- never mind! Get over to the school! We need help, and you’re the only one I can think of who’d survive it!”

“Hey!” Principal Cavins’ voice, fainter but still cheerful. “Get Malachy, too. He’ll _love_ this place!”

“Bring first aid kits,” Ja’far said, in the level tones of a man determined to avoid insanity by way of checklists. “The best real weapons you have. Some food and water; if you come in to get us I’m not sure how long you’ll be stuck with us. And anything else you’d want if you were about to get dropped off... somewhere you could never talk about. With very - active - wildlife.”

Tiburon shook his head. “I’m getting a lot of static on this line.”

“That would be the electrical star-nosed moles,” Ja’far said flatly. “I’m surprised the signal can actually reach you. It probably wouldn’t if I weren’t helping... but I’m getting kind of tired.”

That started Tiburon moving toward the weapons, phone still tucked into his shoulder. “Where are you?”

“At the school.” Ja’far’s breath caught. “Sort of....”  

“Don’t forget cameras. And rope!” Cavins called over the line. “All the mountain-climbing gear you can get.”

“Rope?” Tiburon said suspiciously.

“We’re stuck up a cliff,” Ja’far sighed.

Tiburon blinked, smacking himself in the forehead as if to reboot his brain. “...Where did you find a _cliff_ in _Northwest Florida?_ ”

“You don’t want to know,” Ja’far said numbly, “and you’re going to find out.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: rasayanashastra - can mean chemistry, alchemy, or sometimes just “science”.
> 
> If you look in some modern folklore, what’s recounted as “djinn haunting ruins” is what we in the west often call poltergeists. So Callimachus’ info is not right.
> 
> In regards to Alan’s panic over Morgan’s reputation... believe me, it’s justified. Small towns (or even medium-sized ones) in the Northeast are really bad places to be a pariah. If it became known she spent the night in his bed up there, she’d be badly thought of, but Alan would be blamed.


	3. If your principal gets eaten, do you ace the semester?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...Aaaaand It Gets Worse. *G*

Morgan’s eyes climbed the impossible tower as they hovered on Aladdin’s magic turban, picking out glints of late afternoon sun off polished marble, gold, and glimmering vines of slick ruby petrified wood. _This is impossible. This is incredible. This is_ -

“This is going to give the rescue helicopters fits.” Alan shaded his eyes, staring upwards. “No blinky light on the top.”

Morgan scowled at him. “That’s magic, and you’re worried about air ambulances?”

“It’s worry about the blinky light,” Alan said seriously, “or start freaking out about how the world is _so_ not ready for this.”

That wasn’t what she’d expected. “Not ready?”

Alan was staring at the midpoint of the tower now, focused on the wide platform where winding stairs merged into the tower wall. “I don’t remember the details, but I know what’s in there. Monsters. Magic. Treasure. And power.” His hand strayed to the cord at his neck, before he forced it back to his side. “The kind of power nobody’s used to one person having. Not outside fairytales. Not for _real_. Once somebody finds out about it, and they will, we’re going to have a lot of scared people out there. And I don’t know how we can tell them they’d be scared of the wrong thing. Not if what I dreamed was real. One person with power? There’s only so much damage they can do. What people will do to _get_ that power....” Alan’s gaze swept down the tower, to where the base erupted out of what had been Hancock High’s tennis courts. “Don’t get too close.”

Seated in the middle of fluttering white cloth, Aladdin heaved a sigh. “Dungeons don’t kill you if you don’t go in!”

Alan shot the younger boy a _look_.

“Okay, so Zagan’s dragged people in....”

“Dungeons kill people?” Morgan inquired. Cool, calm, collected. A good martial artist was all of those, at all times. But she had people she trusted beside her, and Aladdin’s carpet was proof enough that the world had become something new and strange. Whatever was there, they could face it together.

“Sometimes lots of people,” Alan said grimly. “You don’t remember that?”

Morgan closed her eyes a moment, searching for those shadows of dreams. “I remember pain. And fire. And _freedom_.”

Blinking, she caught a golden stare, and a blush. “Okay, officially trying not to be a wet blanket,” Alan said shyly. “Why don’t we get out of the sky before the seagulls get jealous?”

“We’re going to be fine,” Aladdin said firmly. “Even if we can’t beat the dungeon - and I know you two, we can! - I can talk to the Djinn inside. If they don’t want anyone who’s in there already, it’d be a lot better to just let your teachers go.”

“...Huh.” Alan hopped off as they swooped down to the ground, looking thoughtful.

Morgan squinted at him.

He gave her a sheepish grin, scratching the back of his head. “Just wondering. If your principal gets eaten by a dungeon, do you get an automatic A for the year?”

She flicked him in the forehead.

“Ouch!”

Aladdin was looking between them as his cloth gathered itself back into a turban. “You two-!” He chuckled. “Well, if Masrur _already_ says you’re her boyfriend, I guess you’re not going to be dragging me to taverns this time around, huh?”

“What?” Alan choked.

Morgan raised an eyebrow.

“Darn!” Aladdin sighed, flicking out his half-carved silvery mulberry wand. “Where am I going to find some lovely ladies with big, bouncy-”

Alan covered the magi’s mouth. “Okay, okay! We’ll go in the dungeon, would you just stop _talking_ about that and settle for perverted manga like a normal kid... eheh.” He met her gaze, cheeks fiery. “I’m so dead.”

_Boys_. “I’m certain my uncle could give you some advice,” Morgan deadpanned.

“Dungeon it is,” Alan muttered. “Okay- erk. Heh. _Hi, Mr. Tiburon!_ ”

Pack over his shoulder as he stared up at impossible walls, the swordsman had to shake his head, and focus on them. _“I told you to go home!”_

_“And I told you they wouldn’t.”_ Uncle Malachy loomed up like leather-jacketed doom, his usual flesh-colored earstuds changed out for the steel of war. Nodded at Morgan, and beckoned to Alan, setting his own pack down to reach inside. _“Tiburon had a blade that should suit you. What can we expect in there?”_

_“Why are you asking_ me? _”_

_“We can’t take kids in there!”_ Tiburon objected, as Morgan eyed the staircase leading up and tried not to bounce. Bouncing made changing out her own earrings just a little tricky. _“How did you even get here before we did? We drove!”_

“We flew,” Aladdin said innocently. “Faster.”

Morgan smothered a chuckle, even as Alan accepted a curved shortsword with wide eyes. _“Called a_ khanjar, _right?”_ Malachy cast back over his shoulder. _“They’re_ coming, _Tiburon. We’re going to need their help.”_

_“I don’t send kids to fight my battles-”_

_“Then you’re going to_ die _in there,”_ Alan cut him off. _“Aladdin - he knows the kinds of things that are inside that place. He’s a magi; if anyone can keep you alive in there, it’s going to be him. And I don’t think he’ll go without us.”_

Aladdin shook his head. “No way.”

_“...Magi are fairytales,”_ Tiburon said at last.

Uncle Malachy shrugged. _“Was that there yesterday?”_

_“This... but....”_ Tiburon stared up at the tower again, shoulders slumping. _“Simon’s in there?”_

Alan was already headed for the stairs, scabbard tucked through his belt. _“And they probably don’t have much time.”_

_“...You’re scared stiff.”_

_“Damn right.”_

_“Then why-?”_

Alan took a deep breath, and kept climbing. _“Because somebody has to do something.”_

Two steps to kick off his sandals, and Aladdin was right behind him. Smiling, Morgan followed.

_“All right.”_ Tiburon climbed after them, looking grim. _“What’s in there?”_

“I don’t know,” Aladdin said honestly. “I don’t know which dungeon this-” He frowned, as light seemed to glimmer near his face. “Baal’s? Oh. That could be good. I think he’s pretty nice. Well, nicer than Zagan, anyway....”

“Something tells me that’s a pretty low bar,” Alan said wryly. “So what’s in there?”

“I don’t know,” Aladdin shrugged. “I’ve never been in Baal’s dungeon.”

Listening to their translation, Tiburon facepalmed.

_“If he’s nicer than Zagan then it won’t kill us immediately,”_ Alan said bluntly. _“Outside of that - I don’t_ know. _I... think I remember monsters. Traps. A maze with somebody snickering at you all the way through. That kind of thing.”_

_“You think you remember?”_ Tiburon said incredulously, as they gained the platform and he eyed the shimmering veil of night inside a vine-framed arch. _“There isn’t even a_ door, _how do we-”_

“Wait!” Aladdin grabbed him before the swordmaster could touch the shimmer; only rolling his eyes a little as Alan grabbed onto him in turn. “We have to go together, or we could get scattered all over the dungeon!”

_“That would be bad,”_ Uncle Malachy said dryly, latching onto Tiburon’s other arm, just as she gripped Alan’s wrist. _“Morgan? Ladies first.”_

Taking a deep breath, she reached out to the starry surface.

Midnight rippled like a drop striking still water, and they were falling.

_Light!_

A tunnel of golden light, falling so far and so fast it didn’t seem possible they could survive. Morgan could see her companions falling with her; Tiburon looked stunned, Uncle Malachy calmly waiting, Aladdin grinning, and Alan....

From the set of his jaw, he wished he were anywhere else. But his eyes... his eyes were wide with a wonder that clutched her heart.

_It’s real. The dreams are_ real.

The tunnel shot them out, and they were still falling.

_Are we in_ space?

They couldn’t be, they were still breathing - but she could see the starry black around them, lit by beams of light from a living planet below. A planet with continents that _didn’t match_ Earth-

A beam swept over them, and the world went white.

* * *

Landing hurt.

Tiburon braced himself against wet rocks and pushed, making sure he could feel air against his face before he breathed in. Though when it came to breathing water or breathing vacuum, water might be a cleaner way to die....

_Air!_

He sloshed to his feet, blinking away salty drops as he checked on the rest of his companions. Morgan and Alan already had Aladdin hauled out on the rocky shore; Morgan looked alert, and Alan like the most awestruck half-drowned kitten he’d ever seen. Malachy was up out of the surf zone, standing barefoot on the dry part of water-licked black rocks. Which just left him-

Something _moved_ in the water.

_Shark!_

He lunged for shore, grabbing Malachy’s hand as the martial artist seized him and yanked. Behind him Tiburon could feel the pressure of something huge, shoving water away, air hissing out in a ghastly reek of seawrack and old bones.

_What the hell is that?_

Not a shark, he saw as Malachy yanked him sideways. Unless someone had crossed a shark with a purple-green dragon-eel; and were those _sparks_ flying from its teeth?

Jaws the size of a phone booth crunched just short of his boots. Tiburon felt his hair stand on end. _Yep. Sparks_.

And then it was a mad scramble up and away from the water, some kind of golden glow holding off fangs as they got to higher ground.

Aladdin lowered his wand as the sea-beast retreated. Shook out his shoulders, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Is everybody okay?”

Wiggling his toes to make sure he hadn’t left one in impossible jaws, Tiburon jerked his head to look at the blue-haired teen. “You speak English!”

Aladdin blinked, then smiled, a little shy. “No, I don’t.”

“But-” Tiburon cut himself off, listening to his own words echo in his ears. Not, _you speak English_. More like, _Ai! Egom engnerrtos twey Englis guet_.... “What the hell is going _on!_ ”

Which didn’t come out in English either. Tiburon clenched his fists, determined not to panic. He hadn’t feared a physical opponent in years, but this-!

Malachy gripped his shoulder. “It’ll be okay.”

And Malachy wouldn’t lie to him. Even if Malachy’s version of _okay_ included _oh, we only need to bust up a whole biker bar to get out of here_.

Not to mention the kids looked completely unfazed, and Tiburon would rather be dyed blue than let a student see him panic. He swallowed, looking around. Flowstone columns towered overhead, water streaming down them to the sea. Vines curved and curled in masses of brown and green, strong enough to hold broken marble columns. The waters beneath them were cold, dark, and angry; more like the Atlantic in storm than the relatively calm autumn Gulf they’d left behind. And something about the sea wasn’t _right_.

Tiburon took a deep breath, and knew. _The water doesn’t smell right_.

The Gulf near Hancock High would have smelled of seagrass, and salt, and bits of crab and fish washed up on the shore. These waters carried scents of the open ocean, bare as bone, ready to parch a stranded survivor dry.

Movement caught his eye, and Tiburon stared up at leathery wings between them and the sun.

_Those are not birds_.

“...Where _are_ we?”

“We’re in Baal’s dungeon,” Aladdin answered. “Where he tests people to see who’s worthy of the power of a Djinn.”

“Djinn,” Tiburon said blankly. “What, like in the Arabian Nights, Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves, Aladdin and the magic lamp....”

Morgan was smiling. Alan was whistling. And Malachy looked even more expressionless than usual.

_Simon said to train Alan_ , Tiburon realized. _He never said anything about Aladdin. And this is the man who played Sinbad the Sailor; there’s no way he’d fail to mention that name. Which means he doesn’t know... oh no_.

The blue-haired Magi chuckled. “I never had a magic _lamp!_ ” He smiled at Alan. “And Alibaba and the Fog Troupe - well, they weren’t just _thieves_. It was complicated.”

“We can straighten out fairytales later,” Alan shrugged. “We’re here. How do we find Principal Cavins?”

“Well....”

Somewhere inland, something roared.

Alan pushed back wet hair, and drew his blade as if he’d been doing it for a lifetime. “I had to ask.”

* * *

Shifting rocks. Darting dragonets the size of hawks. Collapsing pits. Morgan danced through it all, and felt her heart leap higher than her feet could fly.

_This is what I was born for_.

She was a MacLea, she was _Fanalis_ , and they were the deadliest predators ever to stalk the earth.

_This isn’t Earth_.

Even better. She struck and punched and leapt, forging their way across impassible slopes by shattering her own footholds. Beasts fled her or died.

_They flee_ us.

Uncle Malachy was clearing the way with her; Alan and Tiburon kept anything from flanking them. Protected in their midst, Aladdin raised mystic shields against spat venom, tossed a wind when flocks of dragonlings threatened to swarm them, and kept whispering to glimmering motes to make sure they were still headed for other humans.

_We’re together, and we’re alive_.

Heart singing, she charged.

* * *

“Morgan, wait!”

Curled for another pounce halfway down the next corridor, Morgan halted. Alan saw her fingers twitch as the tiger-sized electrical mole she’d been about to slaughter took the chance and burrowed into the one patch of dust among the stones, vanishing fast as fur could fly. “Why?” A tiny pout. “This is easy.”

_Good question_ , Alan admitted to himself, catching his breath as their party formed up again. Morgan was sweating and dirty and there were streaks of monster blood on her cheeks and crusting in her hair, and he’d never seen anything cuter in his life.

_Apparently I am a very strange guy_.

They were all pretty much just as grimy and bloody, except maybe Aladdin. But on Morgan, it was absolutely adorable.

_Guess I’ve always been a cat person_ , Alan thought wryly. _Can’t love cats if you don’t realize they’re going to bring you things with feathers_. “Yes, it is. Too easy.”

“Oh, right, jinx it,” Tiburon sighed, swiping blood off his sword with a rag.

“No, he’s right.” Aladdin shook out one arm at a time, glancing at the dirt to make sure the mole wasn’t coming back. “Amon and Zagan were a lot harder.”

“Hmm.” Malachy frowned, looking over them all. “Think it plans to wear us down?”

Alan half-closed his eyes as they started walking again, trying to grasp those fragments of other memories. Fire leaping from still pools. Things that scuttled like ants and oozed like slimes. Levers and pits and strange, wedge-like scripts. “The monsters are the easy part. The closer you get to the treasure room, the worse it gets. We haven’t even run into any riddles-”

Aladdin bumped his arm. Alan blinked, seeing the corridor open up into a wide room with three statues, each facing a new tunnel.

“Yet,” Alan finished. “Here we go.” He eyed the floor before he stepped onto it; not dirt and flat rocks here, but intricate swirls of tiles. “Watch out for pressure plates.”

“So now we’re Indiana Jones?” Tiburon said doubtfully. “No matter how much Simon loves Hollywood, traps like that need to be maintained.”

“Not here,” Aladdin shrugged, bare toes stepping out onto the tiles without faltering. “Baal just has to use a little magoi when something needs fixing, and it’s fine. And there’s lots of magoi here.” He breathed in. “More than Zagan had. I think what we did _worked_. The old sanctuaries had time to heal, and that means... Alma Torran might have healed, too. People could live here again.”

“Don’t mention that to Simon.” Malachy smiled a little. “He’d try it.”

“I don’t want any of us to try it,” Alan said under his breath. “I’ve got something I have to do.”

_There are people depending on me. I’m_ not _going to die here_.

Jaw set, he stepped closer to the trio of statues. One was an almost abstract form, a wave carved from translucent seafoam jade. The second reminded him of an onyx Egyptian statue of Anubis, prick-eared and long-muzzled. Only Anubis didn’t have as many teeth. The third....

The third was almost human; carved of pink granite, dressed in scale armor. Only the gauntleted hands on his sword had true claws, the helmet was formed around horns, and wings folded around him like a cloak.

At the foot of each statue were strings of symbols, triangles dancing with dots and strokes.

_Tran_ , Alan thought. _I can’t - quite-_

Aladdin stepped up beside him, and put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay. You know this. Just let me help.”

_Oh man. The world feels so weird when he does this_.

But they had to solve the riddles to find their principal and vice-principal and get _out_ of here. So he’d take the weirdness. Even if it came with the unsettling feeling that Aladdin’s hand wasn’t just that of a strange kid he was looking after. That it belonged there. _Aladdin_ belonged there, just as Morgan belonged beside them both.

_Because... we’re...._

_Never mind. Focus!_ Alan took a breath, and stared at the wave’s plaque. Odd. The language might be different, he’d never know these symbols without Aladdin’s help, but the rhythm....

_It’s not K’iche’. But it feels the same_.

Old, and graceful, and somehow singing. Like the ancient stories he’d sought out for Maria, of the Hero Twins Hunahpú and Xbalanqué, so he could read to her and the younger children and give them back the bones of lost mountains in the middle of farms and asphalt.

_Maria_. Alan straightened his shoulders. _I am going to get out of here. We all are_. He reached out, not quite touching polished brass, to be certain he had where the text started. One symbol off, and Tran could throw you. _“I drink the breath of men, and drown their hopes. I am a perilous passage. Who gains by seeking me?”_

“Oh no,” Tiburon said wryly, eyeing the edge of his sword for nicks. “ _That’s_ not ominous.”

Moving on to the not-Anubis, Alan had to grin. “Don’t worry, it gets worse. _I call the shepherd away, and devour him; I call away men by name, and they are lost. No weapon of steel shall defeat me. Shall I haunt thee forever?_ ”

“Right,” Tiburon deadpanned. “Worse.”

Morgan moved up beside them both, bare toes stroking a swirl of green tiles. “Why can’t I read it?”

“Not many people could read Tran,” Aladdin said practically. “Alibaba worked really hard on it. Morgiana... well, you learned to read when you were with us in Sindria, but we didn’t really have time for Tran too. Yunan taught you some when you were in the Rift, but it’ll probably take you more time to remember enough.”

Alan glanced up at the granite warrior, then down at his plaque. _“The sky is my domain, storm is my brother. Dare you brave the might of thunder?”_

“Oh!” Morgan clapped her hands together, delighted. “Uncle Malachy, you told me that one! Here they called sky-monsters thunderbirds. But in our clans, on the islands that stand against the sea-”

“They’re dragons,” her uncle nodded.

“Oh,” Tiburon said numbly. “Dragons.”

Malachy gave him a concerned look. “You okay?”

“No,” the swordsman said at last. “No, I am _not okay_. And when we find Simon I am going to tell him how not okay I am, with pointy things for emphasis. I....” He shivered. “Malachy, I _like_ it here.”

Silent, Malachy nodded.

“Don’t just- augh, MacLeas! This place is trying to kill me, it’s messing with my head, and _I like it!_ ” He brandished his blade at air. “That’s not - no one should-!”  

“You’re remembering.” Aladdin looked up at him, solemn and calm as a sage. “A long time ago, in another life, you were someone important. Baal knows you were his ally. I think he wants us to like it here.”

“Electric sharks,” Tiburon said skeptically.

“Well, some of us are Fanalis.” Aladdin grinned at Morgan and Malachy. “He wouldn’t want us to be _bored_.”

“We’re not going to worry about it, because we’re not staying,” Alan said firmly. He looked at the plaques again, trying to juggle pieces in his head. “Mr. Zvezdil... Ja’far. Aladdin, when he called, you looked like you knew him-”

“I do!” The magi brightened. “That’s why I’m not worried. He’s _fine_ in a dungeon. Simon will be fine too.”

_Fine in a dungeon_. “Does he read Tran?” Alan asked.

“What difference does that make?” Tiburon frowned. “We just need to pick the right tunnel to get farther on, right?”

“No,” Malachy said quietly. “We don’t need to find the right one. We need to know, _which one would Simon pick?_ ”

“Ja’far does know Tran,” Aladdin nodded. “If he can remember his own name, then he should be able to read the symbols here. But we should pick the right one anyway. Once we talk to Baal in the treasure room-”

“They could be dead by then,” Alan cut him off. Stared into blue eyes, determined to resist the power of soulful pleading. “I know you believe in us.” _Though I can’t figure out why_. “I know you believe in Ja’far. But if you know him - do you think he would have called people in to help if he thought the two of them could make it on their own?”

Aladdin’s shoulders fell. “I really want to talk to Baal,” he said softly. “I want to know if... if he knows if Ugo’s okay.”

“We know.” Morgan put a hand on his shoulder. “But we have to save people first.”

“...You’re right,” Aladdin admitted. Touched his flute, and looked up at the two adults in their party. “I can tell they’re not too far, but I don’t know which of these tunnels leads the way they went, and which just doubles back and dumps us into more trouble. So which way would they go?”

“Hmm.” Malachy’s brows wrinkled, as he looked over stone wave, Anubis’ nastier cousin, and the winged warrior.

“This is Simon,” Tiburon said wryly. “Do you really think he’d miss out on seeing a dragon?”

* * *

“It’s been a while,” Simon mused, watching Ja’far carefully clean out the worst of his bites with a tiny violet glow of life magic. “Do you think Tiburon’s okay?”

_I hope so_ , Ja’far thought. _If the magoi’s thick enough in here, if the dungeon’s influence is doing what I think it is - then there may be enough of Sharrkan awake to give him a chance_. “I think he stands a better chance than anyone else we could have called,” Ja’far said practically. “I don’t know Malachy, but if he’s even a modern Fanalis - they’ll be okay.” _I hope_.

“Modern Fanalis?” Leaning back against the wall of their cliff crevice, battered sword by his waist and half an inch of hair burned off on one side, Simon gave him a look askance. “Is that anything like a _modern_ magician?”

“In a way.” Ja’far leaned out enough to look at the fanged shadows still circling in the sky. No, they _weren’t_ giving up and going away, damn it. Either that, or there were enough to take over every time a few got tired. Which was possibly worse. “The world I remember... a Borg was one of the simplest spells. You could use it to separate magicians from people who weren’t; Magnostadt _did_ , by smashing visitors with a hammer. A real magician would shield. Instinct.” He shrugged. “I don’t know how or why, magoi is life energy and that shouldn’t change - but for some reason magic just... hasn’t been as strong in our world. A modern magician _might_ manage a full-strength Borg if he’s trained, strong, and lucky. A modern Fanalis can bend steel bars and shatter bricks with a single blow.” Ja’far sighed. “An ancient Fanalis could shatter stone just stomping his foot.”

“...You’re serious.” Simon leaned forward, peering at him out of interested brown eyes. “Is that why you won’t use your clan spell on me? You think I’d be disappointed in what you can do?” His smile was warm, if just a little wistful. “I’d never be disappointed in you.”

“Believe me, that has _nothing_ to do with it,” Ja’far said forcefully. _Well. Not much_. “You’d get us canned for harassment. Womanizer of the Seven Seas.”

That, and even if Aladdin had managed to scour every trace of David out of a possessed soul, bringing back _Sinbad of Sindria_ with all his memories was something Ja’far didn’t want to consider as an option short of Godzilla marching on the Emerald Coast. Preferably with Mothra, Ghidorah, and the rest of Monster Island closing in behind.

_Someone raised a_ dungeon _in Florida,_ Ja’far thought ruefully. _Giant monsters may not be impossible_.

“Well, at least I know I was handsome.” Simon frowned. “Though I have to wonder about your king’s judgment, if he picked me for an ambassador.”

_Not going to giggle_ , Ja’far told himself sternly. “The king of Sindria had his reasons,” he said steadily. “You were a very effective merchant-adventurer, and you were charming and smart enough to get yourself out of most trouble. And you got to know the Generals very well when they hauled you out of the rest of it.” He coughed behind his fist. “And if you hadn’t had diplomatic status, you’d probably have started small wars in every port.”

_One day I’ll tell him the truth. One day_.

For now, he didn’t want Simon to feel he stood in Sinbad’s shadow. This was a new life, with new chances. Even if Ja’far had been dragged into reclaiming most of his old cruel habits, there was no way he’d let someone shove Simon onto that same dark and twisted path.

No. Better to let Simon think he’d only been one of many who’d worked alongside Ja’far to protect Sindria. Not its manipulative, grief-torn king.

Simon tilted his head, listening. “Do you hear that?”

“I’m not sure,” Ja’far muttered. “My ears are still ringing from you _surfing the landslide_.”

“That made perfect sense!” Simon paused, for once looking slightly doubtful. “...I think.”

“It was that or the geysers,” Ja’far admitted. The last thing they needed was Simon doubting himself in the midst of a dungeon. One heartbeat second-guessing a warrior’s instincts, and they’d both be dead. “I’m not up to keeping us from being parboiled.” And that hurt, in a way he’d never have expected it to a week ago. He didn’t have the power to bend reality the way his memories said magicians of old could. And he _wanted_ to. Not for himself; he’d never really wanted magic for himself. For Simon. Because memories or not, the man still found the world a place of wonder. And watching that wonder, whether it was learning to use magoi for the odd ki-tricks the rest of the world thought were just martial arts rumors, or helping a student with a tough home life find the strength inside to get moving... it made him happy.

_And that’s how he talked you into going in here in the first place_ , Ja’far reminded himself, listening harder. Odds were Simon _had_ heard something. He just had no idea which of the somethings in the dungeon it could be.

“Hmm.” Simon’s gaze was a little distant, thinking. “Right. Next time, what we need is a surfboard that won’t melt. Then we can take the geysers.”

“You always would do your own stunts,” Ja’far muttered. “Simon. I hate to say it, but there probably won’t be a next time. A place like this... it’s usually a one-way trip.”

_“This pilot don’t fly no one-way missions,”_ Simon quoted. Breathed in, and seemed to relax, Hollywood bravado softening into a smile. “Ja’far, do you trust me? Because I trust you. I think you made the right call.”

“But it’s been hours....” Ja’far looked at his watch. “I think.”

His watch. His very subtly expensive watch, which he’d put under the same category of basic necessities as rent, course syllabi, and edible sustenance, because it was his _Simon-handling_ watch. Drag it underwater, hit it with a hammer, or roast it with a flamethrower, and it would still check its GPS location, display current local time, and the moon phase and time it was in the last three places Simon had dragged him through. His life-saving, certainly headache-saving watch... which was currently displaying an unspecific time BC.

_Only you, Simon. Only you_.

“Don’t worry about the time. Help is coming.” Simon lifted his head, hair stirring in the breeze. “Can’t you feel it? There’s a change in the wind.”

* * *

Morgan’s nose twitched. “Do you smell sulfur?”

Alan looked at the rocky slope they were climbing, and for once wished he knew more about geology than _quartz is a really pretty rock_. “I’ll take your word for it.” Though now he thought he could smell it. “We shouldn’t stick around.”

“Slope’s unstable,” Malachy said shortly, leading their way through what looked to Alan like impassible rocks. “No better way to climb it.”

Aladdin peered upward. “And we can’t fly-”

“Normally, that’s just a _given_ ,” Tiburon muttered.

“-The little dragons are distracted by something up there, but if we take off, they’ll want to challenge us,” Aladdin finished.

Mid-scrabble, Tiburon paused. “Did you just call those _little?_ ”

“Yes?”

_Those things are the size of Buicks, and they’re little?_ Alan wished he could climb faster. His hometown had had plenty of rocky hills, and he’d bounced off plenty of alley walls in his time, especially dodging Pablo’s gang, but cliffs were kind of in short supply. Even with the vague bits of memory and _I-know-how-to-do-this_ Aladdin had brought to the surface - well, he was pretty sure he knew how to get _down_ the slope in one piece, but up it was another matter. Right now, the best he could do was follow Malachy’s lead-

The handhold was warm. And _wet_. And the air tasted like rotten eggs.

His hand grabbed for the steel at his throat, as the world roared white.

_Hot!_

The force pounded at him like a firehose; blinding, blistering hot water, in a moment there was going to be _pain_ -

... _It doesn’t hurt_.

One hand clenched on steel. The other on stone, and it was holding. He didn’t know how he could be holding on against this blast, except that heat which should have cooked him alive was just sinking in, as if steel were a bottomless pit for all the fire in the world.

And for a moment, he remembered blue eyes, and an awesome grin, as Aladdin’s staff held high the biggest ball of heat magic he’d _ever_ seen. He hadn’t even had time to _panic_.

_Fwhoomp_.

Panic had washed away in sheepish wonder, as steel had sucked magoi down like water, because... Amon was _fire_.

And he could breathe in the pounding water, it didn’t hurt. It _should_ have hurt, he could sense the heat - but it was like hot mocha after walking through a blizzard, just hot enough to fill you up and finally feel warm....

_The others are behind me!_

Steel in hand, Alan drove his fist into the geyser, as if he could rip out the essence of fire. _Here! You want to burn? Burn me!_

Water gurgled, and finally ebbed away, steam wisping away as cool fog. The trickle slowed, to just a cool rivulet flowing over stones.

He blinked, face wet. _Am I still alive? Everything feels all fuzzy_....

A rope whipped down past him, and he could see Malachy’s face high above. “Morgan!”

The rope went taut, and Alan felt the cliff thud under feet as Morgan launched herself up in controlled jumps. He concentrated on just hanging on as she thumped down by him, getting herself under him.

Morgan took a breath. “Let go.”

It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. But it was Morgan.

He fell into a cage of arms, and Morgan was flying.

* * *

“Yes!” Simon helped Malachy yank up the rest of the rescue party as Ja’far sat down hard, staring at them all. “I have been trying to get the two of you in one place for _years_ , and now... Ja’far?”

His vice-principal, covert magician, and usual voice of sanity had eyed Malachy in pure disbelief, and was now staring past their two wayward, bloody students and even past Tiburon at a young teenager with a white turban, an outfit out of one of Simon’s last movies, and a long blue braid whose color looked not dyed, but had all the subtle shades and gradations of actual _hair_. “You,” Ja’far said in a voice of utter _I Am So Doomed_. “What are you doing _awake?_ ”

“You remember me!” The boy lunged into Ja’far’s arms, hugging him tight. “I’m so glad to see you!”

Ja’far’s return hug looked like the man was trying to survive an electric shock, but Simon thought he deserved a B+ for effort. “I told you you were good with kids,” he chuckled.

“This... is not a usual kid,” Ja’far managed, voice strained. “Mr. Ryans, Miss MacLea, what are you....” His voice trailed off as he looked at the young pair; almost equally bloody, bruised, and grinning. Though Alan was also cleaner, probably because he was soaking wet. “Oh no. Oh _no_. It was right in front of my face and I _missed_ it, oh Fate _hates_ me....”

“Oh?” Simon asked, curious. Because Ja’far had all but said he’d known Alan in another life, and now he finally might get some answers.

The blue-haired boy’s head whipped his way, and bright blue eyes widened. “Uncle Sinbad!”

_I have a fan?_ Simon wondered. _He’s a bit young for the movies I was in, but_ -

Then _he_ was being glomped. And he didn’t mind a bit.

_This boy... why does the world feel strange around him? Like half of it’s holding its breath, and the other half is laughing_....

“Principal Simon Cavins,” Ja’far said, with the sort of stiff formality he used to disguise _I really want to kill something before it kills me_. “Meet Aladdin. More formally, Aladdin, son of Sheba and King Solomon, Lord of the Djinn, Magician of Creation, _Magi_.”

Simon blinked. Drew back enough to look down into deep blue eyes. “Really?” Because if it was true - Ja’far never lied to him, but this was something out of ancient fairytales and if it was _true_....

_Then the world is a more wondrous place than I ever realized. And I want to see it all_.

“It’s been a long time.” Aladdin’s smile went shy, as he loosened his grip. “I guess... I guess you don’t remember me....”

“Well, that’s a shame,” Simon said firmly. “But whether I remember you or not, I want to get to know you now, young man.” He winked. “Anyone who can crack Ja’far’s straight face is _worth_ knowing.”

Aladdin held his gaze a long moment more, then beamed. “You’re still you, all right! And Ja’far and Masrur and Sharrkan, you’re all _here_ , Morgiana and Alibaba won’t have to fight so much _alone_ , and- how did you even get up here, anyway?”

“I don’t want to remember,” Ja’far groaned. “We managed to get around the geysers most of the way up, but then the dragons swooped down and... there was a landslide, and part of a tree trunk, and Simon is _still crazy_.”

Right, he was just going to ignore that, Simon thought loftily. Because if it was crazy and it worked, it wasn’t crazy, right?

But those _names_. Names out of legends, of myths lost to time; names that felt so hauntingly familiar, here where the very air seemed to sing in an ancient tongue. Three were allies of the Sailor of the Seven Seas. Two were the golden Prince of Fire and the Fanalis slave girl he’d freed to fight at his side. And _Aladdin_ -

_The Sleeping Prince of the Djinn_ , Simon remembered, from Ja’far’s quiet tales. _The boy his friends gave up everything to protect; strength, and Djinn, and magic_.

_And we’re in a_ Dungeon.

“It’s real,” Simon said softly. “Your stories, how the world was different; how there were monsters and sorcerers and Fanalis who could shatter stone with a step - it’s all real.”

“Yes.” Ja’far was smiling, even if he looked almost a breath from crying. “It’s all real, Simon. And we really can die here.”

“We won’t,” Aladdin said firmly. “If we can get to the treasure room, I can talk to Baal. Maybe he can just let us go until we’re ready. Or....” the smile slipped a little. “If we get back to where we came in, I think I can open the tunnel back to our world. That’d... probably be safer.”

Tiburon scratched his head. “You’re really worried about Ugo, aren’t you?”

“He’s the best,” Aladdin said earnestly. “I mean - you’re my friends too! But Ugo took care of me for so long, and I really want to know if he’s okay!”

“Either way we pick, we have to get out of here.” Malachy frowned over the side of the cliff. “That might be a little tricky. Not sure how you cooled down the whole geyser, Alan - but that probably undermined a lot of the cliff face.”

“You did what?” Simon eyed the soaked teenager, arms crossed in his best _I am Principal, there will be explanations_ style.

“In my defense,” Alan shot back, shoulders stiff, “the _geyser_ started it.”

_Must not laugh_ , Simon told himself, fighting back a snicker. _Must not. Principal. Supposed to be responsible example for the younger generation. Or so Ja’far keeps telling me. Darn_.

But apparently nearly getting killed had relit the fire in his young student’s gaze. Alan looked annoyed and even worried, but he no longer looked _hunted_.

_I have to talk to that young man’s father. Possibly with a cutlass_.

Preferably before Morgan could do it for him. Simon knew that crinkle of a promise in the girl’s eyes, bright as the polished steel in her ears. He’d had plenty of contact with her cousins Dougal and Ianatan over the past three years. When a MacLea looked like that, they were thinking about wonderful violence-

Malachy’s head jerked up, and he _moved_ , shoving them all toward the back of the crevice. “Rockfall!”

Simon let himself be shoved, covering Aladdin as dust and rubble cracked and rumbled down. Smaller bits stung; larger rocks crashed against a sudden glow of golden energy over them all.

_A Borg_ , Simon realized, as all seven of them huddled close and hung on for dear life. _That’s a full-strength Borg. Ja’far’s right; it’s amazing_.

Shuddering, half the mouth of the cave fractured and fell away.

Pressed up close enough to Morgan to demand a shotgun wedding, Alan blinked through the dust. “Sorry...?”

“Could have happened to anyone,” Simon waved it off. And tried not to cough too much. Odd; that wasn’t just dust, it tasted oddly _musky_. A bit like the time he’d made the mistake of agreeing to perform a stunt with a particularly cranky bear. “Hmm. Well. Looks like up might be the more stable option-”

Shadows swooped over them.

Behind them, something growled.

_Oh, this isn’t good_....

* * *

Massive, scaled talons clawing at the mouth of the cave, Malachy saw in an instant. Alan, Simon and Tiburon were slashing at something in the back of the cave; there was too much dust to make it out, but he could smell fur and meat-eater breath, and the polar bear-sized thing had at least three glowing red eyes too many.

_Secure our rear first. Aladdin can block the entrance_.

Jaw set, Malachy slammed his foot down to launch-

With a grating groan, the whole cave gave way.

_...Did not expect that._

There was surprisingly little screaming. A fair amount of swearing; he’d go after Ja’far with soap later. And lots of snarling from the bear-gorilla-who-knew-what that tumbled out with them. Though that was cut short with a Chihuahua-pitched yelp as Morgan slammed its organs into mush from one side and Tiburon calmly cut its throat from the other.

_I have good friends_.

The beast tumbled away as the rest of them tried to latch onto each other. Simon was already spread-eagled to skydive; Malachy tried to follow his lead, because if _anyone_ could land in one piece without a parachute-

White cloth billowed out, catching them all.

_Fwhump_.

Turbanless, Aladdin sat in the middle of floating white and grinned at them. “Good plan!”

“Maybe not so much.” Alan had actually found his footing on the fabric, which was more than Malachy felt like trying. “How much can this thing carry?”

“Oh, we carried a whole caravan of wine once... maybe not for long-”

“Forget the wine!” Ja’far had, of all things, a slim steel mechanical pencil in one hand, top filled with tiny tumbled stones; a much more practical dagger on a cord in the other. “Can it hold _those?_ ”

Malachy stared up at the horde of talons and wings swooping down, and found himself grinning.

_This might be too much for us_.

But no one with him flinched. Tiburon and Simon were fighting back to back, blades slashing muzzles, claws, and careless wings. He and Morgan were shattering bones and punching through scales, even as everyone had to bat away a sudden swarm of toothy bee-sized wyverns using their larger brethren as cover to dart in and chomp exposed flesh with numbing fangs. And Alan was everywhere Ja’far’s blade wasn’t, taunting and slashing anything that managed to gnaw or burn through magical shields.

_If we’re going down, we’ll go down fighting_.

Aladdin shouted something, and wind bent around them like a sideways tornado. Dragons were torn and tumbled from the sky, the lucky ones beating against the edges of the wind to flee. The wyverns were tiny enough to hide in the still air around the turban, diving at faces and hands as fiercely as kittens on dancing feathers.

_At least it’s time to breathe_ -

“Baal!” Aladdin was frowning up at the sky, braid whipping in the wind. “You can hear me, can’t you?”

_“I can.”_ The echo rumbled from the sky like a somber giant’s hidden mirth. _“But you have not yet reached the proper place to speak to me, Magi. You know this.”_

Malachy swatted yet another wyvern like an overgrown mosquito. It puffed into gold-and-violet vapor, glittering over bloody bites like a shimmer of sunset. It _felt_ like sunset, somehow; cool, and a rising wind, and the thickness of night scents.

“I know we need to come to the treasure room if we’re trying to claim your power!” Aladdin called back at the sky; none of the mini-wyverns were bothering _him_. “But I just want to talk!”

_“You’ll have to earn the right to do that, Magi.”_ A hint of regret, in that booming voice. _“We are guardians; of knowledge first of all things, even above power.”_

_Regret? Why-?_ Malachy whipped his head around, trying to see if anything could possibly be sneaking up on them. Though it was darker all of a sudden, with that cloud passing between them and the sky....

_That’s not a cloud_.

Jaws the size of a cargo loader opened, sparks flying between teeth that had to be as thick as his head. Malachy stared upward, trying to think of a countering move.

_That... we can’t get up there, even if Morgan and I hit it together it’s_ too big, _we’re really going to_ die-

_“Amon!”_

Fire lashed up and out, slipping between fangs like a dagger of flame. The great dragon shrieked, and sheered off, circling at a distance.

Alan fell to one knee, breathing hard. “Wasn’t... sure that would work....”

Aladdin swallowed hard, raising a stronger shield around them. Looked over them all; bleeding, bruised, and near the end of their endurance. Winced, and shook his head, blue brows drawing down in a surprisingly ferocious scowl. “They’re not _ready_ to come for you yet! Can’t you see that? I know you miss your king, you want him back, but - he doesn’t remember yet! He didn’t even know what was _in_ here when he charged into the tower!”

_“Nor did any of those who first braved the dungeons,”_ the clouds rumbled. _“It matters not. All challengers show what they are willing to risk... and what their determination can overcome. Or cannot.”_

“It matters to us!” Ja’far snarled, knife whipping around Simon to slash down three more wyverns trapped inside the shield with them. They puffed into the same glittery smoke, misting over everyone. “We have _classes_ to teach in the morning!”

“I wish I could teach them in _here_.” Simon spun in place, taking out wyverns after Tiburon as the swordsman did the same for Morgan. “This place is _beautiful_.”

Ja’far swore under his breath. “You might be crazy enough to think so-”

“Might?” Simon gave him a look askance.

“Right, what was I thinking?” Ja’far deadpanned. “You’re definitely crazy enough, but you’re in no shape to challenge a Djinn and live to tell about it! Not yet!”

“Do I have to challenge him?” Simon said wistfully, as the last stray wyvern went down to Morgan’s fists. “Think of the filming we could do! The action scenes, the special effects; the chance for our students to learn _how to survive_. We have so many broken souls in our school. And damn it - there’s nothing that helps _fix_ people better than giving them a chance to scream out all that aggression on something they can kill without being arrested!”

_“You do not wish to conquer this dungeon?”_ The voice sounded thoughtful. And, Malachy thought, maybe just a little disappointed, behind the stoicism of thunder.

Getting his breath back, Alan stared up at the sky. “Hey! Did anybody ever say there was a time limit?”

“Alan,” Morgan started.

Aladdin shook his head fiercely, free hand waving; _no, no, no! Let him talk!_

“You heard Ja’far,” Alan went on, daring to stand on shifting cloth. “We’re not ready _yet_. So we need to get ready.”

Thunder boomed and grumbled, a sky settling itself to be cranky.

“And the best way we could get ready,” Alan pressed on, “is if we could _come back_. Not to the really hard levels - that’s fair, that’s yours to keep secret, anybody who wants to get to you would have to face the toughest things you’ve got, with no warning. But right now... dragons, hell! Nobody out there’s even seen a _tiny wyvern_ before! Our world’s different from the one Aladdin remembers. Most people who saw dragons would think it was all computer graphics, until something bit them on the nose. Even if you wanted to get ready to face traps and monsters, there’s nowhere to _do_ it; put a spike pit trap in your backyard, and people will call the cops! Couldn’t you just let people come in and get a glimpse, then leave before they get dumped into the deep end? Then they could decide if they even want to _try_ to be your king.” He shrugged, almost managing a grin. “That way you get the people who really want to do it. And those are the ones who’ll give it everything they’ve got!”

Aladdin took a deep breath, relieved. “He’s right!” the magi called up at the clouds. “Why not do that? There’s no Al-Thamen in the new world; nobody’s forcing the world-gates closed this time. You can control the dungeon. If people want to just come in and look, you can _make_ it so they can only go so far.”

Flickers of light traced through the sky. _“That is not how the task is done.”_

“It’s not how it’s been done _before_ ,” Aladdin agreed, eyes wide and pleading. “Nobody said it had to be done the same way forever, right? Ugo asked you to test kings thousands of years ago, after the fall of Alma Torran. But the new world’s different. We made it different. It’s never had dungeons or king vessels before. I’m not even sure we need kings; not the way Solomon was king, or Kouen tried to be. We need them more like Alibaba, and Sinbad, and even Kouha. People who aren’t out there to rule everybody, but to pick up people who fall down, and make sure they can take care of themselves! And if we want people to do that - then they need a chance to see they _can_. Couldn’t you use your dungeon for that, for the people who aren’t king candidates?”

An ominous rumble.

“Think about it! Your king wants to see what your dungeon’s like,” Aladdin insisted. “And you want to see what he’s like, right? Only part of what he’s like _now_ is, he’s got a job to do in the new world. And it’s really important, it helps a lot of people, and he has to do that while he’s learning to fight for you! And....” The magi eyed the sky. “It’s not just him. The world there really is different. Alibaba’s right; I haven’t seen anywhere people could train using even _little_ fireballs without getting noticed. Why not let people come in and visit the first levels, where there’s just the easy stuff and no treasure? If they’re just exploring, if they _don’t_ try to get into the treasure room... all you have to do is make another door leading to the rest of the dungeon, where everything’s just as dangerous as it used to be. Dungeons are supposed to help you find out what people are like. If you make part of it somewhere to practice, where they can come and go home again... they get to see a little of what a dungeon’s like, and you get to see what they’re like. Then if any of them try the other door, you’ll know if they can’t do it when things are real.”

“Would he let us come back?” Simon said eagerly. “And bring my students? This place is incredible, it’d be such a waste not to take the chance to show them - Ja’far, didn’t you say these disappear after they’re won?”

“Er. Yes?” Ja’far managed. “Usually?”

Lightning crackled. _“To enter a dungeon is to swear you have the will to seek your goal, even unto the threat of death. What you ask....”_

“Please?” Simon said sincerely. “If I understand the situation, you think what we’re asking isn’t what this place was originally meant for. But could we borrow it for a little while? To visit? I don’t know what happened with everyone else who’s come through here, but this tower... this is exactly the sort of place I’ve always wished I had. Alan and Aladdin are right, you know. There’s nothing like this in our world. My students could never even imagine something this fantastic could be real, unless we can show them! Can’t you let them in for just a little while, to get just a taste of this world, before we come back and run your challenge as it should be run? They could learn so much.” There was wonder in his eyes, and he breathed in like he couldn’t get enough of the wind. “I could learn so much.”

Aladdin smiled at him, then turned that smile on the sky. “Please, Baal? This was a sanctuary for your people, ages ago. Wouldn’t it be great if some of their children could see the domain that saved their ancestors?”

_“...If that is what you wish, Magi. For a time, the door shall remain open, and the deeper labyrinth sealed away.”_

“We’re coming back?” Tiburon grinned, obviously thrilled. “Oh yes, I’ve _got_ to try this again... wait. What am I _saying?_ ”

“That you’re just as crazy as the rest of us,” Simon smirked. And cupped his hands to shout to the sky. “Thank you! This has been one of the best days of my _life!_ ”

_“...You are still young. Teach them well, Magi.”_

A white circle flared around them, and the world was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, far as I know canon doesn't say whether Ja'far can read Tran. However Rurumu got hold of him and educated him aggressively for years, so I think it's plausible.
> 
> Ai! Egom engnerrtos twey Englis guet. (Lo! [AKA Hey! or Ah! or some such noise of surprise.] I did not know you can speak English.)
> 
> This would be more properly represented by Proto-Indo-European linguists as: Ai! Eǵom n̥ǵneqʷ tos twé Englis guet. 
> 
> Caveat here: I don’t speak PIE. Nobody speaks PIE. The best anyone can do is make some educated guesses. Do not take any of my linguistic fiddling as fact. I just did it for fun.
> 
> That said, here’s the pronunciations I scoured off various places on the internet.
> 
> Ai as in Cairo. ǵ as in garlic. e as in met. b, d, h, l, m, n, pronounced as in English. g as in get. n̥ as “en”. o as in pot. s is voiceless as in sin. p, k, t are plain as in Romance, Slavic or Greek languages, not aspirated as in English. é as in they. qʷ - A voiced velar fricative, a sort of gargling noise, similar to the way some Parisians pronounce the "r" in “Paris.” u as in lute.
> 
> And bringing Sinbad of the Seven Seas fully back online in a modern world? Godzilla Threshold. Without a doubt.
> 
> *Wanders off to find Godzilla....*


	4. Do we get extra credit for Bio for this?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some official notice is taken of the tower. 
> 
> ...Those poor, poor cops. 
> 
> At least there's pizza?

_We’re alive_. Ja’far thumped down on his knees at the base of the tower, as white cloth gathered itself back into a turban. _I can’t believe we’re all alive_....

Panic leaping in his throat, Ja’far did a quick headcount. Sometimes dungeons could scatter survivors across half a continent, Djinn could be worse jerks than Sinbad-

Two dangerous Fanalis redheads, dusting themselves off and breaking out the first aid kits. Mouse-brown and black together, as Alan and Tiburon shakily picked themselves off the ground. A blue braid peeping out from under a flying turban. One bloodied purple-dyed idiot. And himself.

Ja’far slumped back against sun-warmed stone, relieved. _We’re alive. Unbelievable_.

“I didn’t get to ask him about Ugo....”

Sheathing his blade, Alan put a hand on Aladdin’s shoulder where the magi sat on sunlit stone. “You know, it could be that no news is good news.”

_“How?”_

“Well, think about it,” Alan persisted. “Amon jumped to me because he was worried about you, right? Baal knows Ugo’s your friend, but he didn’t say anything about him. That means he’s _not_ worried - at least, not enough to bend the rules of a dungeon too much. And _that_ means, as far as he knows, Ugo’s probably okay.”

Ja’far raised an eyebrow, surprised. Though come to think of it, Alibaba always had been good at logic... when he wasn’t panicking.

Given Sinbad, Al-Thamen, and Aladdin himself, Alibaba had had plenty of reasons to panic.

Aladdin scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, and looked up at his friend. “You really think so?”

“You said he was one of the good guys,” Alan said firmly. “If Ugo was in trouble and you could do something about it, I’d bet Baal would figure out some way to let you help.”

Ja’far hid a wince.

“But what if I couldn’t do anything?” Aladdin said quietly.

“Then he’d tell you,” Alan said flatly; as if words could make it so. “He wouldn’t let you just hang on hoping, if there was nothing you could do. If Ugo trusted you to take care of yourself in a pinch, then _he_ must think you’re growing up. And that’s what real grownups do when people they care about are in trouble. They tell the truth, so if there’s anything that you can do - and sometimes there is - then you can do it. And if there isn’t,” his voice shook a little, “then at least you got the chance to tell them goodbye.”

Simon’s gaze sharpened at that, eying Alan like he was trying to stare right through him.

Alan mustered a tired smile, and a shrug. “So if Baal didn’t tell you, Ugo... well, he might be hurt. We don’t know. But I’d bet he _will_ be okay.”

“You really believe that.” Slowly, the desperate hurt eased from Aladdin’s face. “Thanks.”

_I’d forgotten what it was like_ , Ja’far thought, relieved. _That pure_ belief _Alibaba’s always had. That people can be better than they are. That they can save themselves. No wonder he was such a good fit with a Djinn of sincerity_ -

His brain seemed to hiccup, putting together those last few frantic minutes in the tower. “You _have_ Amon?”

Alan glanced his way, and looked a little sheepish, touching something oval and metallic under his shirt. “Lucky for me,” he admitted, “or Callimachus would have killed me.”

_He has a Metal Vessel. Oh, no_ , Ja’far thought numbly. _Oh no, if he has one, there’s no way I’ll keep Simon away from Baal, our normal lives are effectively over_....

Then again, Simon would be the first to say _normal_ was overrated.

“Callimachus,” Simon nodded, standing. “The magician who attacked you and Morgan? Who’s the lady who was his ally? What did they want?”

“Her name was Phaenomena, and she hits like Morgan in a bad mood,” Alan said frankly. “What he _wants_ \- who knows. He had Aladdin chained up-”

“Fomoire chains,” Morgan said darkly. “He used them on Alan, too.”

“Fomoire-?” Tiburon gave them all a wary look.

“Magoi-draining,” Ja’far stated; remembering Magnostadt, and what Aladdin had told him of the fate of hapless non-magicians in the citizenry. Brr. “Energy eaters. They can kill you without ever leaving a mark. If he was able to hold a magi - Simon, this man is _dangerous_.”

“No, really?” Simon said wryly. “And here I thought the dent in our shed was just a friendly knock hello.”

Malachy smirked. Alan gave them all a look of, _and who are the adults, here?_ “Yeah. Dangerous. So I think we should get out of the open before we get into how dangerous. If he went after Solomon’s Wisdom then he’s _going_ to be poking his nose in here.” He grinned at Morgan. “Though maybe he’ll wait until after his bones heal up some.”

She blushed.

_He already knows the way to a Fanalis’ heart_ , Ja’far thought ruefully. _No, no, relax; he hasn’t even started tossing her fish yet_.

Though from Masrur’s - _Malachy’s_ \- look of mild amusement, her uncle had absolutely no qualms about encouraging this high school romance. Which in a way made perfect sense. A Fanalis had to either be _very gentle_ with an ordinary human lover, or find someone who was much, much tougher than human. And there wasn’t much tougher than someone in full Djinn Equip-

Ja’far grabbed that mental image, stuffed it into a trunk, hauled it off to an unknown location, and shot it dead. Repeatedly.

_I blame Simon. He could corrupt a_ saint.

“Then let’s get inside,” Simon nodded, taking out his cell phone. Or what was left of it, between rockslides, dragons, and geyser steam. “Hmm. Definitely inside; there should be working phones in there, we can order pizza, I don’t know about the rest of you but I’m _starving_ -”

_“Sir! Is everyone okay over there?”_

Ja’far blinked. Shook his head, trying to jostle his thoughts back into order as two wary uniformed cops headed their way across what was left of the tennis courts. _We weren’t speaking English. We weren’t even in Alma Torran, and we were still in the old language... this is going to be a mess_.

“Ah, Officers!” Simon smiled at them, stuffing the remains of his cell phone back into a tattered pocket and otherwise acting as if it were completely normal to be wearing scratches, bruises, and a battered sword over casual shirt and pants. “I’m glad you’re here. Would you believe some moron let a crocodile loose on our grounds?”

The older officer, dark hair a little gray by his ears, gave their group a careful once-over. His younger partner’s gaze bounced over the grounds, obviously searching for a large aquatic reptile with copious teeth. “We had a report of a disturbance,” the older patrolman said levelly. “Something about screaming.” He looked up at the tower. And up, and up, expression sliding from polite calm to distinct unease.

“No doubt you did,” Simon said firmly. “It had _teeth!_ ” His hands clawed the air; an incredible underestimation of the dragon’s gape but a quite reasonable impression of a wide-eyed civilian overestimating how big the Scary Nasty Monster had been. “I intend to call Animal Control as soon as we get inside. I have to admit, I’m not sure where it went. We ended up running.”

Both officers were looking up at the tower. Then at Simon, and his merry band of battered maniacs. Back at the tower.

“Lots of teeth,” Alan said sincerely; ignoring the tower almost as blandly as Simon was, even as he kept Aladdin discreetly behind himself and Morgan. “Do we get extra credit for Bio for this?”

“Hmm.” Simon tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose that depends on Mr. Zvezdilin’s judgment as your Biology instructor, but... did you identify it to species?”

Alan’s look was a perfect ‘teen frustrated with the insanities of the grownup mind’. _“Teeth.”_

Ja’far cleared his throat, and straightened what was left of his sleeves. “Visible teeth when the jaw is closed is one of the defining characteristics of the American Crocodile versus the American Alligator,” he stated, in his best aloof instructor manner. “I have the specific identification books inside. Let’s go take a look.”

_Don’t laugh,_ Jafar told himself as the kids, and then Malachy and Tiburon, obligingly fell in behind him. _The bluff won’t work if you break down laughing hysterically... even if you do feel a bit like the Pied Piper_.

“So!” Simon said brightly to the cops as the rest of them made their polite escape. “Is there anything else I can help you gentlemen with? Anything? I really do want to make that phone call; a crocodile will _never_ survive in the wild around here past October, what is it with people who keep exotic beasts that they think they can just drop them off the side of the road and be done with the responsibility? It’s outrageous! Why, I’m going to bring this up at the next town hall meeting; there ought to be an ordinance!” He frowned. “Not to mention that I think there are also some federal laws involved. Would that fall under Fish and Wildlife or the Department of Environmental Protection? Or possibly the Marine Patrol; it’ll make for salt water if it can....”

The cops were now backing away, slowly and carefully. “Thank you, Mister....”

“Cavins; Principal Simon Cavins,” Simon said graciously. “You’re welcome, gentlemen! We appreciate your checking in on us, but we’ll be perfectly fine. Er, watch the underbrush!”

The cops picked up speed. Tempted beyond endurance, Ja’far whispered the words to a very minor wind spell; enough to let him pick up whatever they were muttering, without being noticed himself.

“...Just _leaving?_ ” the rookie was hissing.

“Eh, at least it’s not another UFO call,” his partner shrugged. “Let Animal Control take care of it.”

“But - that tower-thing-!”

“That’s code enforcement,” his mentor said dryly. “Not our job.”

Dusting off his hands, Simon grinned, and jogged to catch up to them. “Problem solved.”

* * *

Seated in the Arabian Nights parlor Simon had put in instead of a teacher’s lounge, bites cleaned and bandaged, Malachy stared at the teenager currently helping Morgan and Aladdin finish off a third pizza. “You broke Fomoire chains with a _multitool?_ ”

Alan didn’t meet his eyes. “Locks and I have an understanding, okay?”

_Understatement_ , Malachy thought wryly, working his way through a slice with extra cheese. Though it explained a lot about how Alan had managed to survive the chains in the first place. Most people would have been unconscious inside a minute, and dead not long after that. Martial artists lasted longer, given they had stores of magoi developed from fighting; Fanalis, less, since most of their energy was already tied up in agility, strength, and speed. Alan might not have had formal training in magoi manipulation, but between dedicated running and whatever ninja-style energy use he’d improvised with locks, he’d had enough strength to stay conscious and _think_.

“Not the tool,” Morgan said firmly. “The will behind it. I heard an incantation.”

“It’s not a spell!” Alan protested. “Just, you know, a mnemonic to help me focus-”

“ _Khul ja shem-shamayim_ ,” Morgan cut him off. “What does that mean?”

Alan seemed to find something on the low table _very_ interesting. “...Open Sesame.”

Malachy hadn’t known Ja’far long, but from the glances Simon and Tiburon were tossing the magician’s way, the way his ears were turning pink with stifled laughter was _definitely_ rare.

“An understanding with locks,” Simon murmured, wiping his hands on a napkin. “That’s a useful gift.”

“If you like getting hauled into Juvie, yeah,” Alan muttered. “Look, my... father’s a respectable guy here, right? He doesn’t need to know about that.”

_“You think he’d be ashamed of you?”_ Aladdin frowned, a smear of tomato sauce on one cheek. Still not speaking English, but Malachy’s ears didn’t seem to care. As long as he was listening for the intent rather than the sound, Aladdin’s meaning came through. _“But he found you. He brought you into his home. Why would he do that if he didn’t care?”_

“I have no idea,” Alan shrugged, trying to be casual and failing miserably. “I don’t think he plans to fit _explain myself to the motherless bastard_ into his desk calendar.”

Malachy _felt_ Morgan’s snarl. Her fist hit the floor, and paint cracked. “Don’t say things like that!”

“If it’s true, it’s not slander,” Alan said bluntly. “Mom was a journalist, Morgan. I learned that piece of legalese a long time ago.” He looked at Simon, gold eyes almost hiding old pain. “Anyway. Not important. What do we do about Callimachus? I’m not sure where to look for the guy, he’s _not_ going to listen to a couple teenagers asking him to back off, and-” He swallowed. “I don’t want to kill anybody.”

_But I will_.

Malachy heard the unspoken words hanging in the air; saw them in the set of that young jaw, the clench of unpracticed fists.

_If he hurts Aladdin again - if he comes after all of us again - I will kill him_.

Malachy traded a glance with Tiburon. The swordsman inclined his head in a slight nod, then pointed at Alan. Or rather, at Alan’s sword. “The first thing you’re going to do is carry that everywhere.”

“But-”

“Everywhere,” Tiburon said bluntly. “Simon can get you some of the school filming paperwork to smooth out the details. The _second_ thing you’re going to do is make time for lessons. Every day. I’m not having one of my students die on me because he was trying to fight just from _instinct_.” He _hmph_ ed. “And third....”

They waited. Malachy raised a curious brow.

“Sorry,” the swordsman said at last, glancing out the window toward the dungeon with a somewhat dazed look. “I think it just hit me that we’re dealing with _magic_.”

“Third,” Simon said grandly, “we’re going to make it harder for him to get at you all. Ja’far and I have already warned him off school grounds; if he comes back, we can get him for trespassing. I find most magic-users tend to be allergic to anything like police.” He lifted a shoulder, let it fall. “If it becomes more serious than that... Ja’far and I can take care of ourselves.” He studied the three youngsters. “Morgan, stick close to your family when you’re not in school. Truly skilled martial artists know enough to be almost as wary of official involvement as magicians; even if Phaenomena wants a grudge match, she’ll probably have more sense than to attack a whole clan of MacLeas.” He eyed Aladdin and Alan. “Which leaves you two.”

Malachy’s eyes narrowed. So Simon was treating them as a team? That might get sticky. Alan had already tried to drive a wedge between himself and the rest of them; he’d seen Simon absorb the _bastard_ and deliberately ignore it.

_You can’t have teamwork when one of the team is trying to sabotage himself_ , Malachy thought. _The question is, why?_

And he couldn’t help but think he had the pieces, if he could just figure out how to fit them together.

_He has the reflexes to fight, but no one taught him,_ Malachy thought. _He cares enough to break a total stranger loose from a fatal spell, and trust his life fighting alongside a girl he met a week ago; but instead of letting those bonds grow, he’s trying to edge himself out of their lives. Even if it’s killing him inside, because that boy_ wants a friend-

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Alan’s fingers knotted together, as he assumed a neutral expression. “You’re assuming the guy _won’t_ go to the cops. He might. What are we going to say, he attacked us with magic? Even if somebody didn’t toss us in a cell for observation, they’d probably get Child Services in to talk to Aladdin. Alone. Maybe you scared Callimachus off, but you think a social worker’s going to be that brave? No way.” Alan glanced at the magi. “Not to mention, he might not even have to use magic. All he has to do is fake up some papers saying he’s Aladdin’s legal guardian, and we’d be buried in cops and paperwork before you could yell _unlawful arrest._ ”

_“He won’t get me with those chains twice.”_ Aladdin gripped his wand. _“No kinds of papers are going to change that!”_

Alan took a deep breath, let it sigh out. “Aladdin. Have you ever lived on the run? People actually after you? Not able to go to school, or get a job, or even wander into a grocery store without worrying someone’s going to know you need to get turned in to the cops? Because I know people who have, and _it sucks_. You do not want to live like that.” He looked at Simon, gold eyes glinting with determination. “Which is where you come in.”

“Eh?” Simon gave him a lazy blink.

“You were from Hollywood,” Alan pointed out. “I read a bit a while back about the CIA and some Hollywood types working together to get people in and out of tough spots. And since everybody in L.A. knows everybody else, odds are you know somebody who can make a legend for Aladdin. Or you know somebody who knows.”

Simon gave him an even lazier look, like a cat just waiting by a mousehole. “That’s quite an assumption to make-”

Alan pointed at Ja’far.

“What do I have to do with this?” the magician sputtered.

“What are you, twenty-four? Twenty-six, max?” Alan said dryly. “Even if you went straight into college from middle school, there’s no way you have a Biology degree and an Education degree _and_ enough experience to get hired as a private school vice-principal.” He waved at Ja’far’s sleeve. “You know how to use magic, and that rope knife ninja-thing. You get caught in a _dungeon_ and instead of panicking like a sane person, you call a guy for help who told me he teaches guys who officially _aren’t there_.” Alan crossed his arms. “On top of that, Principal Cavins had to learn magicians were allergic to the law from somebody. So either you know the people who faked up your identity, or he does. Or both.”

For an instant, Ja’far’s eyes went cold gray. “Some magicians can live a long time.”

“Then you’d have to hide that, and you’d still need fake papers.” Alan had just a smidge of a grin. “So. Can you help Aladdin, or not?”

“There may be something we can do,” Simon allowed. “Give me a little time to think about it. It’d be easier if he already knew English-”

_“Oh, I can fix that,”_ Aladdin said confidently. _“Now that I know what I need to look for - Morgan and Alan can help me sort that out while they’re asleep.”_

Which made less than no sense to Malachy. But Ja’far was nodding. “You can read the rukh to learn it from them?”

“Rukh?” Tiburon pounced.

“The flow of life-energy and spirits throughout the universe,” Ja’far summed up. “Magicians can see it. A magi like Aladdin can interact with it. Ask it questions, and sometimes get answers.”

_“_ Some _of the time,”_ Aladdin said emphatically. _“It’s kind of like being in the biggest library ever. Only none of the scrolls are labeled, and finding what you need can take a lot of luck.”_ He looked straight at Alan. _“But if I’m right with someone, I can ask their rukh questions, and get answers.”_

Alan’s brows climbed. “You can read minds?”

_“Kind of, a little? I don’t like to do it much,”_ Aladdin confessed. _“Everybody’s got a right to keep secrets. But if I was with you for a while - I could just ask your rukh to teach me your language. If that’s okay?”_

Alan hesitated. “Does it go both ways?”

_“Sometimes I wish it did.”_ Aladdin brushed some hair out of his face and smiled, quietly sad. _“I can show you visions of the rukh. But I don’t think I could pull you into the flow the way it pulls me in. That hurts people who aren’t magi.”_

That sounded like personal experience. Which made Malachy more than a little uneasy.

“But if you do this, you can get English.” Alan took a deep breath, and nodded. “Okay.”

_Okay?_ Malachy fought not to raise an eyebrow, and felt Tiburon vibrate with the effort of not putting in a sarcastic comment. _He asks to peek in your head, and you say okay?_

Granted, Aladdin had saved all their lives in the dungeon. But for a young man as wary as Alan was, that was a startling level of trust.

_Either that was one hell of a good past life, or Alan has damaged boundaries_. Malachy tried not to frown. _Probably both_.

From the thoughtful look on Simon’s face, he knew that too. And was planning to keep an eye on the situation.

From the way gold eyes narrowed a little, Alan hadn’t missed their little glances at each other. “Think about it,” he said impatiently. “If Aladdin can talk to people besides us, he’s got a fallback plan if Callimachus _does_ grab him again. Or if the cops want to talk to him. Hard to bluff your way out of custody when you can’t even speak English.”

“Good point. In that case....” Simon grinned. “I think we can work something out.” He gave Alan a searching look. “Your mother was a reporter? I’d say you take after her, when it comes to ferreting out interesting details.” He leaned back. “But whatever we tell your father will go a lot better if you don’t look like you tangled with a flock of flying piranhas.” He paused. “That was an _awful_ movie... anyway. Aladdin. Ja’far can work some healing spells, but they’re not very strong. I saw you use a full Borg. Can you help him patch us up a bit?”

Ja’far touched some of his own bandages, wincing. “I still think we might want to have a clinic look at these. There was some kind of paralytic or neurotoxin in those fangs. And who knows what else they carried? They turned into _mist_. If that’s not the classic setup for a mythical curse-”

Aladdin held his hand over Ja’far’s bandages a moment, and smiled. _“Don’t worry. Those won’t hurt you.”_ He eyed the rest of the pizza boxes. _“Good thing you ordered plenty! We’re all going to be hungry after this.”_

“We _just ate!_ ”

Malachy watched his niece and her new friend try not to look at each other, both reddening as the echo of their mutual protest whispered off the walls.

_“Fanalis and fire take a lot of fuel,”_ Aladdin said cheerfully. _“Especially if you need to use some magic to heal up. You’ll get used to it.”_

_There goes our grocery budget_ , Malachy thought ruefully. Though if he were honest, he didn’t feel nearly as full as he’d expected. Which was an oddly foreboding thought. Morgan had been breaking things for most of a month, but that wasn’t entirely unheard of. Between differences in training and how many more normal ancestors were in any of their bloodlines, a Fanalis’ strength could come on in fits and starts all the way into their twenties. But he was well past that. “That cave shouldn’t have broken.” Alan might have undermined the cliff by robbing heat out of the geyser, but if it’d been that fragile, it should have given underfoot the first minutes they’d all dropped in.

“Really?” Mechanical pencil lifted, casting a subtle violet glow over Simon’s bandages, Ja’far tried to look innocent. It reminded Malachy of a snake trying to coil to hide a suspicious lump.

_Aww, he’s always so_ cute _when he’s trying to be deceptive_. Malachy hid a smirk. _When he’s not utterly terrifying_.

Which was another odd thought. He’d never met Ja’far before today-

_But I know him. I know those blades. I know that calculation in his eyes. I can trust him at my back, always_.

Before today, he’d only felt that with two people who weren’t family. Simon, and Tiburon.

_No wonder Simon’s been fighting the universe to get us all together. We belong to each other. The same pride_.

Hmm. He’d better remind Morgan to go slowly on the idea of _pride_ with her boyfriend. A lot of ordinary humans had a hard time adjusting to that level of fighting trust. Though they could. Simon was proof of that.

Simon cleared his throat, and held out his other hand. “Whatever it is, tell us.”

“Ah.” Ja’far looked even more blandly shifty. “I suppose the best way to put it is... does your clan still have legends of Fanalis who could shatter rocks with a single stomp?”

Malachy stared at him.

_“I guess they would have been legends, for a long time,”_ Aladdin reflected, moving in to add a fierce glow of gold to Ja’far’s efforts. _“But even if Callimachus yanked me out early, it looks like the flow of energy in this world’s healed up enough for the rukh to start answering to people again.”_

“This world?” Simon pounced.

Blue eyes stared up into his. Aladdin frowned, then seemed to come to a decision. _“There have been three worlds that I know about. The first, Alma Torran, is where the dungeons still are.”_

Morgan’s eyes went wide. “We really did see another planet!”

Aladdin nodded, wrapping power like white wings around Ja’far’s spell. _“It’s a long story, but - someone tried to destroy that world. Ugo and the other Djinn ended up opening gateways to another world. That’s the world all of you were born in, when I met you the first time.”_

“We’re from another world?” Alan said skeptically.

_“No, you’re from_ here, _”_ Aladdin said firmly. _“Your souls are from another world.”_

“Right,” Alan said under his breath. “Because that makes so much more sense.”

_“It confuses me too, a little,”_ Aladdin admitted. _“But that second world, with Balbadd and Sindria and everyone - that’s the world I wanted for my home. Only, there were really dangerous people, people who’d_ been _the ones who wrecked Alma Torran, who wanted to destroy everything_ again _.”_

“Al-Thamen,” Ja’far said grimly.

“The fairytale boogeymen?” Tiburon objected, as Ja’far left Simon to work on him. “The evil cult in - what was that movie of yours, about the fire-breathing mutant snakes from another dimension?”

_“Lavaconda,”_ Simon declaimed grandly. “And they weren’t mutants, they were genetically engineered atavistic species originally from a lost world.”

Tiburon blinked. Twice. “...Genetically engineered _with magic_.”

“So?”

“Al-Thamen created more horrible things with Life Magic than anything you’ve seen in Simon’s movies.” Ja’far seized Tiburon’s hand before the swordsman could get away. “Believe me, they were all too real.”

“That itches!”

_“We’re asking your body to put itself back together right.”_ Aladdin had just as firm a grip on him. _“Sphintus could just slide healing magic in and fix things, so you barely noticed. I can help Ja’far move enough magoi to fix you as good as he could, but it’s going to itch.”_

“Long story short,” Ja’far said between glowing pencil-motions, “Al-Thamen almost managed to destroy the world again. Sindria and our allies stopped them, but it cost us.” He paused, as if sifting through a treasure-hoard of facts for the most crucial gems. “There was black rukh loose all over the world. It was doing incredible damage. If I remember accurately, Aladdin, you and the Djinn retreated to a Sanctuary so you could... reconcile the black rukh to the white. However that worked.”

_“People shouldn’t have had to choose,”_ Aladdin said quietly. _“A world where you could be trapped in the black rukh, suffering forever, just because you were pushed too far and died before anyone could help you... what happened with Hakuryuu was scary. He went crazy, but he had a_ right _to be angry. The world hurt him, and all he could think of was hurting it back. Even if we stopped him, that wouldn’t_ fix _anything. Al-Thamen would have just faded away and started wars and horrible things somewhere else, to drive another Metal Vessel User crazy. The only way to stop Al-Thamen was to make it so no one could ever pull black rukh together into a Medium again. So... we did that.”_

Alan blinked warily, as Aladdin and Ja’far moved on to his wounds. “Hakuryuu?”

_“I haven’t seen him yet.”_ Aladdin patted his arm. _“But we’re still friends. I know we’ll find him again.”_

“Hopefully not soon,” Ja’far muttered. “One world-ending disaster at a time.” He shook his head. “You and the Djinn opened the way to a third world, this world, where the rukh behaves differently and magoi has been incredibly hard to use. Where most magicians can just get visions of possible outcomes for the future, help keep wounds from going bad, and maybe light sparks if they’re lucky. My clan’s practiced and studied and refined spells for hundreds of years, and I can still barely muster the kind of power Magnostadt took for granted in 6th kodor students. Why on earth would anyone raise dungeons in this world? Ten thousand people died to clear Baal the last time, and that was in a world where a skilled warrior could be slammed into solid stone and survive! How many people are going to die here?”

_“A lot less, if I can do anything about it.”_ Aladdin pressed his lips together, determined. _“Ja’far. There’s a reason. But I can’t tell you yet.”_

“Why not?” Simon asked, almost mild.

Aladdin’s grin was as quick as sun through clouds. _“Because I remember you, Uncle Sin- Simon! And you_ love _surprises.”_

Simon stared at him. “Does it sound that ominous when I say it?”

“Yes.” Ja’far’s grin was sharp as viper fangs. “Yes, it does.”

“...I might owe you an apology.” Simon shrugged, and eyed Alan. “So. What’s the best way to catch your father in a good mood?”

Alan stared back, as if he wasn’t sure what rock Simon had just turned over. “The hell would I know?”

For once in his life, Malachy saw Simon caught flatfooted. “You... don’t know.”

“He’d win a big case, or take my mom out dancing,” Alan shot back. “He was happy when Bertram got his sociology minor and got himself wedged into their Equal Opportunity office; I think he said, _he doesn’t do any damage there, and maybe he can do some good_. And when Sam finally got it straightened out he had social anxiety, and went into Records. Don’t see how you can set up any of those.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed. “And you?”

“What about me?” Alan’s face was a little too bland. “I stayed out of police custody, and I kept my grades up. And Mom and I agreed we’d never mention the landfill.”

“The landfill,” Simon said doubtfully.

Alan looked aside. “A couple years back, some jokers decided to make a quick buck cutting corners about what they took in and how deep they buried it. Mom and I went in and got the proof to help get it shut down.” He scratched the back of his head, sheepish. “Only it... kind of went boom.”

Both Simon’s eyebrows were up. “How big a boom?”

“Made the evening news? It was a slow day,” Alan shrugged. “So. He’s never been a _bad_ guy. We just don’t have anything to talk about.”

“But you’ve been in track,” Simon frowned.

Which made perfect sense to Malachy. After all, the youngster had kept up with Morgan’s easy lope and realized exactly what he’d done wrong after he had enough ice water down his throat to think. That spoke of skill and experience, and even the most uninvolved father was usually all too eager to see a son show off.

“Yeah.” Alan’s hand swooped over the table to snatch a stray bit of cheese, casual as any card sharp cutting a deck. “But it’s not like I _win_ at it.”

Ow. That might explain a lot. There was watching your son compete, and then there was watching him win-

Malachy’s eyes narrowed. _He keeps up with Morgan, and he loses at track?_

Unless Alan’s old school had been full of Fanalis, there was only one way that could happen.

_He does sabotage himself. Not in a fight - but where people can_ see. _Where he could be noticed. Why?_

Alan glanced at Aladdin. “Why do you want to talk to my father, anyway?”

_I think I can guess_ , Malachy thought darkly, catching Tiburon’s frown and Ja’far’s bland mask of a smile over slow-rising fury. _Silversmith didn’t have anything to do with him, and now he’s kidnapped his son and brought him here? Something is wrong_.

“I have a few ideas for keeping Aladdin safe, from paperwork and other disasters,” Simon said casually. “But it might go more smoothly if I can get your father’s assistance.”

“Oh... boy,” Alan breathed. Swallowed, and braced himself. “So what can I do?”

“For now, just let us take you home,” Simon said easily; as if that amount of bravery was to be taken in stride, and he’d never expected anything less. “Ja’far’s patched me up a few times before. Food cushions some of the energy drain, but in a few hours we’re all going to crash where we’re standing. Hopefully wherever that will be will have a _bed_ , because none of us will probably wake up short of noon tomorrow or someone setting our hair on fire.”

Ja’far tried to look innocent. Failed miserably.

“And anyone who uses a name like Callimachus....” A sardonic shrug. “The heroes are exhausted and splitting up, because the enemy seems defeated? Please. Murphy’s Laws of horror movie plots demand that the villain show up when you’re least prepared for him.”

Silence.

“What? Haven’t you read the Horror Movie Survival List?” Simon said innocently. “It has _loads_ of good advice.”

* * *

Tiburon stared up at the mansion ahead of them, white with discreet green trim that was subtly backlit by the bay at the foot of the bluff behind it, and settled his face into casual neutrality. He’d seen more impressive family dwellings back in his family’s crowd, and certainly older ones. But for a mansion not even two decades old, this one was doing a fair job of conveying, _we have far too much wealth to even_ consider _being gaudy_. “You know, if we were less awesome, we might actually have to worry about being intimidated.”

Malachy gave him a raised brow.

_I refuse to be intimidated by anything I could tear down with my bare hands and a little free time to kill_ , Tiburon translated. _That’s MacLeas all over_. “Well, it explains a lot,” he said in an undertone as the younger trio stepped up onto the porch and Alan rang the doorbell; the youngsters were only yards away, and they didn’t need to hear this. “Years of being ignored, and then dropped into this? It’s as bad as dumping a civilian straight into Ranger training. Only then you could see the broken bones.”

Malachy nodded, thoughtful. Glanced back over his shoulder, where Ja’far was whispering fiercely to Simon.

“What’s he saying?” Tiburon murmured.

“Don’t be a bull in a china shop,” Malachy shrugged.

“You know, that’s actually a slander on bulls,” Tiburon reflected. “They can be pretty careful around porcelains.... Hello, Miss!” _Pretty brunette, we’ll have to keep an eye on Simon, even when he’s just being polite they tend to follow him home_ -

“You.” The pretty brunette in a maid’s professional black with white apron scowled past them. “What are you doing here?”

“You know him?” Alan blurted out. “Miss Tanya, this is Principal Cavins-”

“Simon Cavins, late of Hollywood, professional stunt sailor, swashbuckler, lady-killer - have I missed anything important?” Miss Tanya folded her arms, and gave their still slightly bandaged leader a skeptical once-over. “I heard the name, but I thought it couldn’t possibly be you. Who in their right minds would make _you_ a school principal?”

“Miss Tanya... Mallory.” Simon’s smile was just a little wary around the edges. “It’s been a few years, hasn’t it? There’s actually an interesting story behind that-”

“As interesting as the cactus?”

“Ah.” Simon’s chuckle had a slight wince. “Possibly?”

“She knows about the cactus?” Ja’far’s eyes were wide, and oddly innocent. “But I thought you said no one knew about the cactus, except-” He took a second look at Tanya, cheeks ever so slightly pink with what looked like a firm determination not to either laugh or shove Simon over a handy cliff. “ _You_ were the lady with the tweezers?”

Malachy raised an eyebrow.

_Which is MacLea for, just wait, I plan to pounce on you and tickle the answers out_ , Tiburon thought, amused. “Cactus? Tweezers? Simon, why haven’t I heard this one?”

“Oh, it’s a boring story, really....”

Ja’far stifled a snicker.

“May we come in for a moment?” Simon said hastily. “I’d like to set up a meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Silversmith, the next time they’re receiving visitors-”

She raised a hand to cut him off. “They’re home.” Dark eyes glanced at Alan with quiet concern. “A water main broke near the main office, and your father had to cancel things to make sure it was taken care of. So... everyone’s home.”

Alan went two shades paler. “Oh. Great.”

“Window’s open in the kitchen,” Miss Tanya said in an undertone.

Tiburon hid a wince. _Oh, that’s interesting. In an old Chinese curse way_.

On the one hand, at least his new student had made an ally in the household. Quick work, for a teenager who’d apparently only been here a few weeks. On the other - the fact that a lady who officially worked for the Silversmiths was willing to help him _evade_ them said the situation was beyond tense.

“Thanks,” Alan said, face still pale. “Um, I mean - Principal Cavins, you said you want to talk to-”

“I do, and I will, but that doesn’t mean you need to be involved,” Simon said thoughtfully. “You’re not in trouble.”

“He’s not, and you’re here?” Miss Tanya pointed, and the three kids ghosted to the far side of the porch like polite trick-or-treaters. “Stay there a minute.”

_She’s not going to- oh, she is_. Bemused, Tiburon drifted in closer with Malachy as Miss Tanya ignored Ja’far’s cool glare to head for Simon like a heat-seeking missile.  

Her fingers reached up, and closed on slightly singed lapels. “Listen, you well-meaning egomaniac!” Miss Tanya hissed. “I don’t know how much you know about what’s going on here-”

“What’s going on is exactly what I plan to find out,” Simon said plainly, voice equally low. “One of my students is hurting, Tanya. I need to know why, before there’s a disaster.”

The lady took a deep breath, and let go. “I have to go manage supper,” she stated, eyes narrowed. “If you need details, they’re going to have to wait. For now....”

* * *

“Yes, I think the Bay Bears might have a better run this season.” Simon nodded graciously as Mrs. Silversmith poured coffee for himself and Ja’far. “A new relief pitcher will do them good.”

“Humph.” A bit too wide for his suit, Bertram Silversmith added extra sugar to his, and slid a superior glance at his father at the head of the polished mahogany table. “ _Something_ had better help them. Besides prayer.”

_Bertram’s the eldest and proud of it_ , Tanya had said. _Though his mother’s gotten some public manners pounded through his head. He prefers not to admit Alan exists_.

“Well - they always try, right?” Thinner, dark hair combed loosely back, Samuel stirred his coffee, though he hadn’t added anything besides a few drops of milk. “That makes it a good game.”

“Sportsmanship is always good to see in action,” Simon agreed. Thankfully Malachy had taken Morgan off with Tiburon after the boys had waved goodbye and snuck in. Both martial arts experts had firm opinions on the places where sportsmanship belonged. In the middle of fighting for your life was not one of them.

_Samuel’s willing to at least say hi to Alan, but he spooks easily_ , Tanya had warned. _Don’t push him_.

“I suppose I should make time to see a home game,” Richard Silversmith mused, eyeing the principal and vice-principal with politely disguised curiosity.

_Mr. Silversmith is trying to put the best face on this situation_ , Tanya had said thoughtfully, _but I’ve heard enough to know I_ don’t _know exactly what’s going on_.

Which was a warning to watch his step right there. After all, when Simon had last known her, Tanya had had a positive gift for getting to the point. Er... so to speak.

_“Only you, Simon,”_ Tanya had sworn years ago in a back set trailer, as she wielded gleaming tweezers and a small lighter. _“_ Only you. _Your life is an_ actual farce. _”_

_“Hey, now,”_ he’d replied, giving her one of his best wounded looks; slightly dampened by the fact that that flame had already singed a few hairs in places they didn’t let you show with just an R rating. _“I think that’s a bit harsh-”_

And then he’d yelped, because she’d found yet another cactus spine and yanked it free.

_“Ha!”_ Tanya had brandished yet another result of his attempt to hide from the two outraged spouses he’d been trying to _help_ behind the only available - far too prickly - option for defense. Or maybe it’d come from Spouse Number One hefting pot and all to take a spiny swing at Spouse Number Two. Or maybe from his valiant effort to disarm One, which had led to One scrambling away as Two screeched and yanked out a feather boa garrote. That shade of pink should be illegal. _“You know, most people have this weird, completely wrong assumption that actors’ lives are just like what they see in the movies. Which is absolute idiocy._ Except for you. _Because somehow, by the grace of God or the snickers of St. Peter on an Irish wake, you_ always _mix yourself up in craziness that would give a director, two screenwriters, and a whole team of choreographers migraines trying to set it up on purpose!”_

To this day, Simon couldn’t think of Tanya without remembering tweezers in awkward places. She’d tried to be gentle. Really.

...Well, at least a little. Given that she’d actually _understood_ that his attempts at sorting out a director’s marital mess had led to both sides of the argument thinking the other was cheating on them with _him_. Which had led to mutual outrage, mutual attempts to savage him... and then mutual cooing as the pair exchanged “I never!” and “oh, poor baby....”

So it’d all come out for the best. Really. Ow.

_Next time, I find a better weapon than a cactus_.

Once Tanya had slapped more bandages on, she’d _glared_ at him. And he’d ended up making an emergency run to a nearby landscape nursery to hand a spiny, battered pot over to a disbelieving botanist. It wasn’t the cactus’ fault.

All told, Simon had had very pointed reasons to learn better ways to handle marital disagreements. He had a bad feeling he was about to need them.

“I believe that most of the Chamber of Commerce will be attending in a few weeks; I’ll check for the exact date,” Edna Silversmith stated, face set in the coolly polite smile of a Gracious Hostess Impinged Upon. “You can touch base while they’re stealing the bases.”

_Mrs. Silversmith... she wants this problem to_ go away. _Only her husband’s not backing down on this, even if it would look bad in public_ , Tanya had finished. _Be careful, okay? Alan seems like a pretty good kid. And I’ve got a bad feeling there’s a lot more at stake here than a director’s marriage and your tender bits_.

“And that would be why I’m here,” Simon gave her a respectful nod. “Touching base.” He shifted his gaze to Richard. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to change Alan’s schedule. The classes he was in wouldn’t have been nearly challenging enough.”

Ah yes. The room’s temperature had just dropped ten degrees.

_For once in your life, don’t ask questions and just listen_ , Ja’far had hissed, in those few moments before Tanya had marched out to meet them. _I knew Alibaba Saluja. He was far too kind and friendly and incredibly brave when you didn’t expect it, but above all he was a_ survivor. _If Alan acts like he needs to_ disappear _to survive, he has a_ good reason.

“Not challenging enough?” Richard said politely. “He’s going to need good grades for college.”

Bertram smirked. Samuel stared down at his cup.

_Translation, no one thinks he’s going to make it that far_ , Simon thought. _And whose poisonous little idea is that?_

“You have to understand, we know he’ll have difficulties, due to his lack of early advantages,” Edna said firmly. “There’s no point in pushing the boy so hard he fails. That would just be cruel.”

Simon stared at her a moment too long, finding himself more horribly sad than angry. _The really awful thing about this is, you probably believe that_.

He’d met her type far too often in Hollywood, before he’d found Tiburon and later Ja’far. Hangers-on, actors, the whole ideologically incestuous studio lot. Where everyone could be as diverse as they liked as long as they toed the party line: good and evil were just words, moral choices were situational, and so long as you glittered for the paparazzi everything would be fine. That was one of the reasons he’d left Tinseltown and headed for the Gulf Coast, where locals wanted the cash and jobs that came from making movies people _wanted to see_. And to hell with the Oscars.

_You think Alan’s going to fail, because by your standards he can’t do anything else_ , Simon thought grimly. _He’ll never be at the right place and the right time to be seen by the Right People, because he_ isn’t _the Right People. You’d never be so crude as to say blood will tell, of course. “Water seeks its own level” -_ _that’s more your line_.

Which made Mrs. Silversmith the most dangerous person in this house. Bertram’s scorn would sting; Samuel’s fear of actually dealing with someone his family might not approve of would cut an already-hurt teen in its own way. But fighting Edna’s smothering _don’t try, don’t stand out, everyone already knows you’re a failure_....

Ja’far was right. Alan had every reason to be invisible. Edna couldn’t sabotage what she couldn’t see.

But the one Simon really wanted to tear into was Richard, sitting at the head of the table drinking coffee as if the matter weren’t even worth arguing over.

_Oh no, of course it isn’t. Wouldn’t do to wreck your family’s polite little facade of gentility_ , Simon snarled silently. _Never mind that you did that yourself the moment you decided to step out on your wife_ -

Under the table, Ja’far’s foot tapped his.

_Right. Remember the goal. Shredding idiots is fun, but it won’t help_.

Loathsome as it felt, he had to make this woman a willing ally. Or at least someone who had a vested interest in not stopping him.

_As Ja’far mutters when he thinks I can’t hear_ , charm _is a verb_. “Oh, I wouldn’t say it was the academic rigor,” Simon began. _I wouldn’t_ say _it, certainly not to you_. “But I had to make sure his schedule wouldn’t conflict with the Theater track instructors he needs.”

Ah. That had everyone’s attention, no matter how much they might hide it in polite sips of coffee.

“I suppose he might have some talent for... works of fiction,” Edna stated.

Oh, for a reporter’s son those would be _fighting_ words. “Thank you for the suggestion, I’ll have to see if he’s interested in the screenplay electives this summer,” Simon said graciously. “For now, I need to keep my instructors happy. It took them some time to come to an agreement,” possibly all of ten seconds when they’d been in the middle of _fighting for their lives_ , “but it looks as though Instructor Tiburon will be handling his primary combat instruction. Mr. MacLea will be doing some secondary work with him; Alan’s fighting style seems to click well with Miss MacLea’s, and the pair of them should make a very impressive combination.”

Dead silence.

“On the stage, of course,” Simon said easily.

Ja’far kicked his ankle again.

_Aw, come on. Who could resist that setup?_ “The pair of them seem to have a knack for teamwork already,” Simon went on. “Why, just yesterday they managed to scare off a predatory type who tried to grab one of my young cousins.”

Yes, he definitely had their attention. “You have cousins?” Richard raised a curious brow. _Almost_ a skeptical one.

“I have a far-flung family,” Simon said easily. _Flung over a few different planets, if Aladdin’s tale is true_. “Aladdin Cavins. Cute kid, about fourteen now, so high....” He held a hand about Aladdin’s height above the floor. “He’s smart, but a bit too trusting sometimes. He realized he’d gotten in over his head, and he knows he’s lucky someone else showed up in time. The pair of them seem to have really hit it off. Which is good, because I think I’m going to have to enroll him here even if he is a year young for it, and - well, boys will be boys. If Aladdin already has a friend coming in, things will go a lot more smoothly.”

There. Make the situation about _Aladdin_ , not Alan. Which grated, damn it, that this bunch would care more about the social niceties of supporting Hancock High’s principal and chief Hollywood contact than their own flesh and blood....

_But they do. And you have to fight where the enemy is, not where you want him. The trick is to make him_ want _to make his stand on ground you can destroy him on_.

Which was a slightly unsettling thought, and not one Simon suspected he would have had even yesterday. What sort of people had they been in the past, that just a brush with memories and magic could drag _that_ to the surface?

_I need to have a talk with Ja’far. A long_ , long _talk_.

“Aladdin?” Bertram snorted.

“You have a problem with the Arabian Nights?” Ja’far murmured, voice a little too calm.

“Not at all,” Richard smiled, a genuine twinkle in brown eyes. “Or I wouldn’t have advised the school board to hire Sinbad the Sailor in the first place.”

_Huh_. Simon had known that his vision of making Hancock a place devoted to the performing arts as well as academics had run into a brick wall of polite disbelief to start, that had suddenly morphed into eager acceptance on the part of the board. He’d never been able to track down who had dropped the right words years ago to change their minds. “I’d always wondered,” he mused. “No one mentioned your name specifically.”

“It wouldn’t do to have seemed as if we were unduly influencing a professional selection of candidates,” Edna said levelly. “Even if a film industry here does provide honest work, along with acting.”

_So you’re not going to be charmed that easily_ , Simon interpreted that subtle knife. _Right. Time for the judo throw_. “Well, I hope no one will think I’m unduly influencing you,” he smiled. “But I have run into a small problem, and I hope you can help. You see, Aladdin was dropped in my lap rather... unexpectedly.”

Ja’far cleared his throat. “What we mean to say is that until this point Aladdin’s spent most of his life out of the country, and everything here is different to him. But he seems to have bonded with Alan so far, and a familiar face would ease his adjustment-”

“Ja’far, let’s not mince words.” Simon set down his coffee cup. Clapped his hands together, and put on his best hapless, hopeless single man look. “I’m a confirmed bachelor! My flat isn’t fit for human life!”

“ _That’s_ for sure,” Ja’far muttered.

“Certainly not the place for a growing boy, at least until you get it in order. I think we can help each other out.” Richard rose. “Why don’t we discuss the details in my office?”

“You want another boy in the house?” Edna looked at her husband in unfeigned dismay.

“In some ways, two can be easier to manage than one,” Richard said easily. “I’m sure they’ll keep each other busy. And I think it would do Alan good to have someone depending on him to be a model of responsible behavior.”

From Edna’s dubious look as they left, she didn’t believe Alan could manage anything of the sort.

Simon glanced over his shoulder as they hit the corridor, just enough to make sure there wasn’t an actual dagger in his back. _I wouldn’t want to be in that bedroom tonight for love or money_.

Richard’s office was a hair cooler than the rest of the house, air conditioning blowing subtly in the background past a bottle of vanilla potpourri. The room itself was almost as large as most lawyers’ business offices, filled with well-thumbed legal books, a few filing cabinets, and a surprisingly prosaic wood and steel desk that didn’t even try to match the subdued rich ostentation of the rest of the house.

Simon stood just inside the door a moment, absorbing details the way he would map out a character. _Now this_... this _I could see as Alan’s father_.

Richard waited until Ja’far shut the office door. “All right. Why are you really here?”

Simon gave him a surprised blink, buying time. “You didn’t want to know about Alan’s schedule change?”

“Principal Cavins.” Richard didn’t quite stress the title. “You don’t get to be the lead lawyer in a firm like mine without thoroughly investigating everyone involved in any situation which touches on your case. You are arrogant, decisive, generally thoroughly convinced you’re always right, and you _are_ right often enough that you’ve survived a substantial part of your career to date by simply charging ahead and doing whatever insane thing you’ve thought of this time, leaving any opponents scrambling to catch up. You’d never _touch base_ with a student’s parents about a schedule change, unless for some reason it wasn’t working.” He paused. “And you don’t have a cousin named Aladdin.”

Well. It looked like Alan came by his knack for observation from _both_ sides of the family.

“What do you want?” Ja’far’s hands were tucked into his sleeves. Meek and harmless, if you didn’t know about the knives there.

“Just some honesty. Which I intend to return, so you’ll have lost nothing.” Richard looked back at Simon. “Is the boy in trouble?”

“He could be,” Simon allowed. “I do plan to take him in. He’s... the son of an old friend.” _Sort of. I think_.

“Then let him stay here, for now,” Richard suggested. “My son could use a friendly face in this house that doesn’t depend on me for a salary.”

_Much, much sharper than he lets on_ , Simon decided. _Interesting_.

“And honesty for honesty... ignore Edna,” Richard said gravely. “You got the job because you’re the best person for what Hancock High should be. I may have made certain that your resume landed near the top of the heap, and shared a few laughs at parties that we really needed someone flamboyant to make sure movie companies felt more comfortable here, and we’re not all Bibles and brimstone. But that’s all. _You_ convinced the board, and I am very glad you did.”  

Simon added that up with the feel of the room, and shook his head slowly. “You’ve been planning this for _four years_.”

“Oh, much longer than that,” Richard agreed. “First I had to determine what I _should_ plan. Samuel was actually a great deal of help with that, going through data and our local chamber of commerce to determine what sorts of educational institutions might be helpful to the local economy. And then....” He smiled. “Then you came on the scene, and I knew I’d gotten lucky.”

_Four years_. Simon almost laughed in disbelief. “Most parents just get their kids a _car_.”

“He’s fifteen,” Richard shrugged. “What would he do with a car? Besides get into even more trouble. No; this is what he needs.” His voice dropped. “Heaven knows I can’t teach him to live with danger.”

Ja’far was rubbing his head. “Would someone _please_ tell me what’s going on?”

“It appears,” Simon said wryly, “we were set up.” He met the lawyer’s gaze, steady and regal as a king’s. “Alan needs an education that can handle a few _irregularities_. Something that can take intelligence, good reflexes, and an impulse to dash in to help a stranger, and make them assets, instead of ways to land in deadly danger. Something that can aim him toward a career where a... _colorful_ family background is just a bit of interesting spice to his resume, and not a fact that burns his life down in flames before he can ever get started.”

For once, Ja’far’s eyes went wide. “You... you set up _all of Hancock High_ so Alan would have someplace to go to school?”

Richard waved it off. “Please, don’t give me that much credit. You set it up. I just smoothed out the paperwork.”

“Hmm.” Simon raised a brow. “I’d like to know what paperwork you managed to use to kidnap him.”

Richard took a slow breath, and sighed. “You’d better sit down.”

Simon grabbed a chair, plopping down to give the man his full attention. _Evidently, we have now come to the Plot Twist_.

“Three months ago I was contacted by the Massachusetts State Police,” Richard stated, fingers interlaced and pale-knuckled on his desk. “I was... listed as next of kin, you see. To be informed in case of an accident.” He lifted his gaze, brown eyes haunted. “It was a fatal accident.”

_Three months_. Simon nodded slowly, thinking of the numb look in Alan’s eyes, before Ja’far had shoved him up on a stage and the teenager had had to focus on pure survival. _He’s still grieving_.

“Car wreck. She’d run right off the side of the road. No one could say why. It looked like Anne didn’t even try to brake. Sheared off some kind of roadway sign, and... she bled out before help could come.” Richard let each fact fall like embers, too hot to handle for long. “I did call Alan, then. He said the people he knew would help him handle the details, and all he wanted was to be left alone.” A helpless shrug. “I contacted various authorities, enough to determine he was in fact taking care of himself. I didn’t... I didn’t want to hurt him any more than he’d been hurt. So I meant to wait until the school year was about to start, and then offer him the chance to move down here and attend Hancock.” His voice fell. “She was always so alive, so vibrant. I couldn’t believe she was gone. He has her eyes, did you know? Brave as a lion’s.”

_And you didn’t want to see them, and hurt him for not being her, alive_ , Simon thought. “So what happened?”

Pale fingers moved against each other, a grip of helpless fury. “Then three weeks ago, the hospital and the detectives called, within the same hour. Alan was ill, possibly dying. And Anne’s accident - wasn’t an accident.”

“Ill?” Ja’far pounced.

_Trust the healer-assassin to deal with the living first_ , Simon thought. Not that he could blame Ja’far. The magician had warned him they’d better move fast; that the last time his past self had decided they could wait a few days to act, they’d nearly lost lives and a kingdom and almost the world. He had a sinking suspicion Ja’far wasn’t exaggerating.

“At first,” Richard’s huff was too bitter to be a laugh, “they thought it was Ebola.”

“In Massachusetts?” Simon said incredulously.

“He was bleeding from his eyes and nose, and he had a lethal degree of fever,” Richard said dryly.

Ja’far tensed, and Simon held back a nod. _Magoi exhaustion. Fever doesn’t fit that - but Amon controls fire. Was he fighting?_

Hard to say. Alan hadn’t left that many scorch marks dealing with Callimachus. And Richard would have mentioned anything that looked like attempted arson. He hoped.

“They treated it as Ebola until the virus tests came back negative,” Richard went on. “And then... then they kept on treating it, because they had no clue what else it might be. Until the police suggested poison.”

“Poison,” Simon said flatly. “You said Anne’s crash wasn’t an accident.”

“It seems fingerprints can take time to check, especially if a case looks open and shut,” Richard said darkly. “I suppose we’re lucky someone bothered at all.” He squared his shoulders. “Anne’s thumbprint was on the passenger side buckle. As if she’d reached over and jabbed it, from the driver’s seat. And the detective in charge of the case looked at that, and pulled the files out all over again.” He looked up, brown eyes hot with grief and anger. “I’ll spare you the details. I have enough nightmares. Anne was not alone in that car.”

“She crashed it.” Ja’far’s voice was soft. _Understanding_. “She had no other weapons. Whoever held her, she meant to make sure he didn’t survive.”

Wordless, Richard nodded. “When they searched the area again, they found a decomposed body from the right timeframe. I don’t know if they’ve identified it yet. But there are some indications-” He cut himself off, jaw working. “What do you know about human trafficking?”

“Enough to know they’re the scum of the earth,” Simon said grimly. “You think she was investigating that?”

“I know she was.” Richard looked down at his hands. “And I know she had Alan in it with her. You see, he... has a gift with locks.”

_Open Sesame_. Simon kept the realization off his face. “A bit young for a locksmith, isn’t he?”

Richard shook his head. “Never make that mistake. Alan - he’s _not_ a thief. He’s just constitutionally incapable of leaving a locked door alone.” He smiled, a faint and fading thing. “Anne told me once, when he was much younger, she asked him why. Alan said he _had_ to. That someone was in trouble, and he just hadn’t found the right door yet.” He glanced up. “Amazing, the ideas kids can get stuck in their heads.”

“Isn’t it,” Simon agreed. _And I’ll be damned if I don’t think I know who he was looking for. When I found Ja’far - it was like the world was suddenly right. And I’d never realized how wrong it was_.    

“So Anne was dead, and Alan was dying,” Richard went on, face grave. “The hospital was certain he was _still_ being poisoned, but they couldn’t identify how, or what. He looked so small in that bed....” The lawyer pulled himself back from the memory with a grimace. “By this time the cops had called in an FBI agent who’d been tracking the traffickers. He did a background check on me, and decided to take a chance. If we didn’t know how or who was poisoning Alan - then the best thing we could do was get him out of the killers’ reach.” Richard looked at them both, mouth a hard line. “So I hired a private plane, packed him with ice, and flew him here. And he _lived_.”

“You kidnapped him with FBI help?” Simon whistled. “Good plan.”

“Now we just need to make sure he stays kidnapped,” Ja’far said dryly.

“Stays kidnapped?” Richard sat up, startled. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Never underestimate a desperate teenager,” Simon stated, wondering himself. “I could tell you stories of what I did to get into acting. Think about it. The cops and the hospital called you the same day? With that high a fever, even if Alan was aware from time to time, he may not remember anything.” He paused, to drive the point home. “Has anyone told Alan his life is in danger?”

From that suddenly closed look on Richard’s face, he’d guess not.

Ja’far cleared his throat. “It might not make much difference. I knew someone... very like Alan, in the past.”

Simon made himself sit on his impatience. Answers. Ja’far had them, he wanted them, and he didn’t want to wait another minute for them.

“I’ll spare you the details. Just rest assured, it wasn’t in your legal jurisdiction,” Ja’far went on. “When that person was kidnapped _for his own good_ , we were very careful to knock him out cold and _keep_ him out. He was the kind of person who would have swum home. Or incited the crew to mutiny.” Mischief glimmered in gray eyes. “Though I have to admit given that crew, they would have known a good thing when they saw him, kidnapped him themselves, and we’d have had a pirate lord of the seas loose all over again.”

Simon blinked. _Again? But Ja’far told me those stories are wrong, Sinbad was never a pirate. Merchant-adventurer, yes; and sometimes the lines got a little fuzzy, like when the King of Balbadd went undercover in Reim as a merchant to scope things out-_

_The King of Balbadd. Rashid Saluja. Three sons; the youngest illegitimate by way of a palace maid. Ja’far wants me thinking of that mess. Why-?_

_The bastard son. Alibaba Saluja._ Open Sesame. _The only heir of the family who conquered a dungeon._ Amon’s _dungeon_.

If he was right - things had gotten very serious, indeed.

Richard stared at the magician as if he’d alakazamed a spitting cobra onto the desk. “Alan is _fifteen_.”

“A fifteen-year-old who convinced the state he could look after himself,” Ja’far replied. “That’s a very capable young man. Who _doesn’t want to be here_.”

Richard grimaced. “I’ll admit my family can be a bit set in their ways....”

“Like concrete?” Simon leaned back in his chair. “A teenager has a hard enough time keeping his head above water in this world. Given a choice between a safe roof over his head where no one wants him, and a highway overpass where he only has to worry about staying warm and fed, picking the overpass can sound _very_ sane.” _Not to mention he apparently has access to enough magical power to make a dragon back down, two friends from a past life looking at him like he hung the moon, and no self-confidence whatsoever_.

Frankly, Simon couldn’t imagine what it was like to _not_ believe you could carry off whatever you’d planned. The universe had hints, you just had to listen to them.

Only Ja’far had thumped his head - literally - often enough that he’d finally realized most people couldn’t hear the universe in the shift of the breeze. Most people, in fact, lived their whole lives without even a glimpse at the invisible map of _this could work_.

_If Ja’far in frustration mode is any guide, Alan must feel like he’s drowning_.

“I’ve dealt with plenty of difficult personalities in the past,” Simon reflected. “You can’t shake a stick in a dressing room without hitting at least three. Though your family doesn’t have a film project, a budget, and a deadline to get them to pull together. Still. You don’t need your family to _like_ Alan. You just need them to back off the hostility enough that he can breathe.” Simon leaned back in his chair. “Hopefully, if I make it clear that Alan is _my_ problem, your wife will feel less threatened by him.”

“Threatened?” Richard almost sputtered. “But- he’s-”

“The son of a woman you loved very much, who _isn’t her_ ,” Ja’far said clinically. “Assassinations have been ordered for less.”

“Ja’far,” Simon muttered.

“What- oh.” Ja’far blinked, trying to look nonviolent.

“I have to admit, I feel sorry for her,” Simon went on. _When I’m not wondering if she’ll slip acid in my coffee_. “That woman obviously devotes most of her life to making sure everything is _just so_. Polite. Acceptable to society. Perfectly in step with what people think. She must be a wonderful asset as a lawyer’s wife.” Simon paused, just long enough for that to bite. “And you’ve turned her entire household upside down to take care of a walking scandal.”

Color flushed the lawyer’s face. “That’s not Alan’s fault!”

“No, it’s _yours_ ,” Simon said grimly. “But you’re her husband. She loves you.” _I hope_. “Even when you’re mourning another woman.”

Richard opened his mouth... and shut it again, obviously unhappy.

“I suggest flowers. And maple sugar candy. The good kind, that looks like autumn leaves,” Simon said plainly. “Groveling wouldn’t hurt, either. You did what you had to to save a life. That’s decent, noble, and heroic. Now you need to save your marriage. And that is going to be _hard work_.” He glanced aside. “Not that I’d know anything about that.” Ja’far kept nudging him to find someone to settle down with, but so far no one had been interesting enough. Or stubborn enough. He was a handful and a half, and he knew it; any woman who wanted to stay in his life had better come well-equipped with a frying pan when he got another wonderfully insane idea.

“We can worry about Alan, if you’ll let us,” Ja’far spoke up. “Aladdin does need help adjusting to this country, and Alan’s not going to run from someone who needs him. We’ll keep him too busy to run. Hopefully that will last long enough for you to work something out here.”

“And if it doesn’t, I will take them both in,” Simon said firmly. “Even bachelor quarters are better than life on the run.” Rising, he held out a hand.

Determined, Richard shook it.

* * *

_Thank Solomon that’s over_. Ja’far rubbed exhausted eyes as they settled into Simon’s car. At this point he was seriously considering just staying over with Simon, bachelor pad or not. Sleep wasn’t just a need, it was a _craving_ , as the aftermath of the healing spells caught up with them.

“We _kidnapped_ him?”

Ja’far sighed as Simon started the car. _Still as curious as ten cats. If I don’t give him some answers, I’ll never have any peace_. “Oh yes. Very dramatic. Alibaba was right in the middle of declaring he’d never run again, and your past self took him down with one blow. I’m still surprised Morgiana didn’t tear you into little pieces. Then again, Fanalis are pragmatic, and facing down an entire Imperial fleet is more than any one of them can handle.”

“ _I_ kidnapped him?”

“Masrur and I helped,” Ja’far admitted. “You were even more high-handed then than you are now.”

“...That’s hard to imagine.”

“You have no idea,” Ja’far smirked. And sighed, as they turned out onto the main highway. “It was the right call. And someone had to make it. You were Sindria’s ambassador on the spot. We had ties of honor to Balbadd. Forget the damage it would have done to Sindria if we’d abandoned an ally’s son; the Kou Empire would have used the royal family as either hostages or figureheads, and Alibaba would have died rather than be either. And yes, literally, _died_. His country was in shambles, his Metal Vessel was broken, and he’d just buried his foster brother. There’s magoi, and then there’s fighting spirit. Alibaba was at the end of his, and you saved him.” He chuckled. “Of course, you left _me_ to keep him drugged for a month at sea. And then to make sure he didn’t bribe, borrow, or steal a ship out of Sindria. I’d never realized there were that many ways to smuggle a person out of our docks.”

Simon glanced at him, then back at the road. “He really is the Fire Prince.”

“Alibaba Saluja, the third prince of Balbadd,” Ja’far said matter-of-factly. “The bastard prince.”

Simon almost swerved. “You’re kidding. A whole new life, and you have to drag that up again?”

Clutching the door-handle, Ja’far tried not to swear. “ _Yes_ , I have to. It’s shaped him both times. Though let’s just say, so far Alan has been a lot luckier than Alibaba.”

Simon cast him a glare. “His mother was _murdered_.”

“I noticed,” Ja’far said coldly.

“...How bad _was_ his life?”

“You know how you always complain that if anyone had what happened to a shonen protagonist happen to a real person, they’d be curled up in a little ball trying to make the world go away?”

Simon eyed him again.

“Alibaba managed to haul himself out of the ball,” Ja’far stated. “But if Aladdin hadn’t been there to believe in him, he’d have died saving a little girl, alone and forgotten.”

Simon drove in silence for a minute more. “Is that when we met him?”

“No, we ran into him later,” Ja’far said, amused. “Enough later that you had no idea he’d spent years as a lowly caravan driver before getting tangled up with the Fog Troupe. Which explained a lot once we knew about it....” He rested his head against the seatbelt, and sighed. Damn it. He couldn’t fall asleep _now_. Who’d watch Sinbad’s back?

_Simon. He’s Simon. Don’t forget that._

_And Aladdin’s going to help me make sure he_ stays _Simon_.

They’d work out the details later. For now - both he and Aladdin _thought_ David was nothing but a faded memory in the rukh, never to haunt or possess an unwitting soul again. And so far as they both knew the rukh was different enough that no one could Fall permanently. Simon should be safe.

_If the world ran on “should be”, I’d never need a knife again_.

Aladdin had sworn to help him keep Simon safe and sane. For now, that had to be enough.

“Tell me the story later,” Simon said softly. “I’ll get you home.”

“Don’t bother,” Ja’far managed. “I’ll take your couch. Murphy... survival list makes sense... geh.” He rubbed his face again. “I’m awake. I swear.”

“Right,” Simon said dryly. “So why did I knock him out instead of at least trying to talk sense into him?”

“You? Talk sense into anybody?” Ja’far almost snickered, as familiar streets went by. “I think you were afraid he’d talk sense into you!”

“Seriously?”

“Talk-” Ja’far yawned. “Something, anyway.... Sindria needed Balbadd to be active in trade and stable, so you were scheming to get Alibaba crowned king. Only he ran off, fought his way through magical guards into the palace, deposed his brother, refused the throne, and announced he was turning Balbadd into a republic. Giving chapter and verse from memory of places he’d seen where it _worked_. And faced down a Metal Vessel-using princess of the Kou Empire - think local superpower ambassador with the power to declare war and an _atom bomb_ in her hip pocket - to do it.” He poked Simon in the shoulder. “That lifetime? You didn’t impress much. Alibaba did it.”

Pulling into the driveway, Simon laughed softly. “You mean we need to check if Alan already has plane tickets.”

“Would be a... good idea....”

Damn Simon. Why did his shoulder have to be so comfy?

* * *

Hovering over his Vessel in the deepest treasure room, Baal lifted his head toward an errant whisper of wind. He nodded, relieved; he’d been expecting something like this since his dungeon had been summoned.

_“What happened? Why does this tower still stand?”_

“Magi,” Baal acknowledged gravely. He was, honestly, relieved to know Yunan was alive and embodied; there had been no way to tell which of Ugo’s frantic efforts in those last few moments of confusion had truly worked. It _should_ have worked, Ugo had kept his measures in place to incarnate Yunan with mind and memories intact, yet they’d hoped to never need that safeguard again. If things had gone according to plan-

But they hadn’t. And even if the other Magi were in this world now, they’d be in no position to help until they were born anew... and grew up, and could be found to be taught who and what they were. Baal had feared it would be years before he’d hear a Magi’s voice again. And every day of waiting without word had ached at him, when they’d all thought Aladdin still a prisoner.... “It has been some time.”

_“It has.”_ Wind seemed to curl and shimmer, uneasy. A tricky bit of magic to focus through the world-gate; Yunan must be on top of the tower itself, in that other world. _“Is Aladdin alright? I saw him enter your dungeon. Yet they all left - and you remain?”_

Baal flexed clawed fingers in contemplation of that marvel. “I do.” He had wondered how that could have happened. Magi abiding by the old custom raised dungeons when they found candidates they wished to lead to them. No magi raised a dungeon to leave it unconquered. Magi Aladdin had been known for visiting dungeons, not raising them; and none of them had planned for dungeons to rise on this world. So if Yunan had not spoken to Aladdin, why had he raised the tower?

Wind twisted in agitation. _“Do you mean - did Sinbad fail your test?”_

Baal considered that in silence, letting wind tie itself in knots as it would. “Ages ago,” he said gravely, “Sinbad came before me to seek my power, was tested, and found worthy to become my king. Today, I met a man who asked something different of me. And with a Magi’s blessing, I have decided to grant it.”

Wind stuttered, nearly wisping into stillness. _“...What?”_

“Did you intend for him to claim my power now?” Baal tilted his head, honestly curious. “You did raise this dungeon on the grounds of his school.” He could not sense much beyond the world-gate, but the rukh that did flow spoke of children, and laughter, and all the aches and joys of humans living their lives. It was a great comfort, knowing that despite all the grief and horror Al-Thamen had dealt, Ugo and his kin had _won_. Life existed. _People_ existed. And Aladdin was alive, and well, and loved.

_It was worth it. All of it_.

Wind fluttered uncertainly. _“I knew this place was his territory, and he would act to defend everything within it. Do you mean... did he not want your power?”_

“That,” Baal said levelly, “has not yet been determined. As Amon’s chosen observed, no one said there must be a time limit. Or that retreat could not be permitted.”

_“You...what?”_ Wind tried to dart in a dozen directions at once, almost collapsing in on itself. _“Amon’s chosen? I did not raise Amon’s dungeon! Or - has Aladdin’s king indeed returned to aid him?”_

Baal hummed thoughtfully. “I did not ask if that were the case. But Lord Aladdin has protectors that will keep him safe.”

_“You’re certain? The intruder still roams free, able to act as he wishes.”_

“My brother’s chosen king will not fail him,” Baal said quietly. He’d read the rukh about his visitors, the better to challenge them. Alan was young, and lacking in both confidence and skill. But the core of him was a fire that would burn to protect his household, and his allies. Aladdin was as safe as any Magi could be.

_Better. He is loved_.

“If you wish to be sure,” Baal proposed, “you could simply ask him yourself.”

A trembling of magoi, and the wind vanished.

“Hmm.” Baal tapped claws against each other, very thoughtful. “Interesting.”

He had not had the chance to ask directly, yet Yunan had clearly known Simon Cavins was here. The Magi had revealed that the magician who’d invaded the Sanctuary had not yet been defeated - yet Baal had seen for himself that Aladdin was now free, and among allies.

_So somehow Aladdin slipped free from the magician’s snare_ , Baal thought. _Yet he still needs aid, to guard himself against further attempts_.

That would certainly be reason for Yunan to raise the dungeon in the hope of granting power to their allies. As for why Yunan had yet to speak to Aladdin himself - well. If he was still calling the man who had ventured here ‘Sinbad’... Baal thought he might be able to guess.

The djinn smiled, just a little. It seemed this new world would provide a host of surprises.

_I believe I’m looking forward to them. Come back soon, Lord Aladdin_.

* * *

_“So looking at pictures is okay,”_ Aladdin said thoughtfully, sitting on Alan’s bed, _“but talking about ladies with big soft breasts isn’t?”_

“Unless you’re with a bunch of other guys, maybe.” Alan kept tapping through his email, on the hunt through various blog comments for anything important. Thank goodness, Aladdin was being reasonable about this. Morgan had taken that comment about tavern ladies in stride, but Morgan was _awesome_. “They’d better be guys you know, though.”

_“Like you,”_ Aladdin agreed. Frowned. _“And feeling nice breasts would make them cry?”_

“People are a lot more formal,” Alan reflected, poking fragments of memory, of a young Aladdin face-first in contact with various willing ladies. “If you have a girlfriend, and it’s somewhere private, and she says it’s okay - sure, both of you have fun. But if you’re not sure, back off. I hate it when girls cry.”

_“Me too.”_ Aladdin bounced off the bed to lean on his desk, poking at the laptop screen. _“So this isn’t a magic tool?”_

“It’s a device that runs on electricity,” Alan stated. “Like really tiny lightning.”

Aladdin lifted his wand, blue-white sparks dancing around silvery wood. _“Like these?”_

Alan stared at tiny lightnings, and wondered why he couldn’t muster up more than a mild eep. _Guess my weirdness meter’s busted_. “Please don’t bring that close to my laptop.”

_“Don’t worry.”_ Aladdin let the sparks ebb away. _“I did learn about overloading things in Magnostadt.”_ He peered at the screen again. _“So this is a way to send messages?”_

“That’s one thing you can use it for,” Alan agreed. “I’m too tired to show you everything tonight, but I need to check on... there.”

Alan read through Sister Thomasina’s latest email, fist slowly clenching at his side. People from various companies had come in, cleaned out, packed up and shut down his mother’s condo. They’d also changed the locks. The only people who had keys now were - probably - his father, and the cops.

_Why the cops?_

Though that didn’t worry him nearly as much as knowing Maria and the _ak’al-ab’_ had lost one more safe place to go. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Sister Thomasina to look after them. He did. He had to. She’d been doing that for refugees as long as he’d known her, and she had resources and adult know-how he just... didn’t. But....

_But she cares because they’re all God’s children_ , Alan thought bleakly. _When Maria and the little ones tell her about the butterflies, she just laughs. Kids, what an imagination, right?_

_What’s she going to do the next time one of the kids sparks a fire, and Maria can’t get it out in time?_

_“You look like someone’s in trouble.”_

Alan glanced at serious blue eyes, and stomped hard on an impulse to spill the whole impossible situation into waiting ears. Sure, Aladdin was a Magi. He was also a kid, a _young_ kid, with plenty of problems of his own. Aladdin had to worry about people trying to kill him. Maria and the others weren’t in that kind of trouble.

_Yet_.

“I got dragged away from some stuff in Massachusetts before I could tie up all the loose ends,” Alan said instead. “It ticks me off.” _And there isn’t any message from Maria. Damn it- no, keep calm. She can’t always get to a computer when she wants to. And she hates email. It doesn’t feel like talking to someone. No-_ He had to smile wryly. _No butterflies_.

He typed up a quick email in Spanish for Sister Thomasina to read to the kids, with a short postscript in K’iche’ for Maria herself. Nothing much, he didn’t want to leave a long message that would send the nun searching for a real translator. Just, _Feeling better now, call if you need help. I’ll find a way_.

Closing email, he popped onto his blog. Obviously, this was not going to be a good weekend for updates. Still, he could at least type up _RL apparently hates me ATM, will try checking back in when world starts making sense, and there was a crocodile. Or what someone_ called _a crocodile. Yeah. Has been that kind of weekend_.

_“So... this is a kind of town messages thing?”_ Aladdin was looking up and down the page, curious. _“You tell people what happens?”_

“Things I don’t mind other people knowing, yeah,” Alan nodded. “I don’t use my real name, better safe than sorry, but it’s a way to get information out there without having to be right up against the guys with the brass knuckles and greasy haircuts.” He scrolled down the page, clicking on a link to one of his mom’s news articles; one of the tamer ones, on how a recycling center was making jobs on the one hand but coming under fire from various charitable organizations as taking away a source of income from the homeless. “This is what my mom... used to do. Find stuff out and let people know what was happening. Like a town crier.”

Aladdin hadn’t lost that edge of concentration. _“Saying what people don’t want to hear... that can be dangerous.”_

“I guess.” _I know_. “Think I’m ready to drop. You want the shower first?”

_“This place is like Sindria, sometimes,”_ Aladdin muttered, heading into the bathroom. _“Baths every day....”_

The door closed behind him, and Alan let out a breath of relief. If those eyes had stared at him for five seconds more, he would have cracked.

_And I can’t. This is my problem. Not Aladdin’s. Not anyone else’s here. Mine_.

* * *

Leaning up against the pillow, Aladdin watched his friend sleep. _It’s weird, seeing him this young_.

Well. He wasn’t _that_ much younger than Alibaba. Which meant he’d had more than enough time to find the kind of trouble Alibaba seemed to attract just by breathing.

Aladdin frowned at the moonlit rukh fluttering around his friend, and gave it a frustrated poke. _I know you toss trouble at him because he can deal with it, but do you have to toss so_ much?

Well, he couldn’t stop the world from trying to solve all its problems by throwing Alan at them. But he could help. Better, he could get an ally Alan literally _couldn’t_ shut out.

Reaching across the sheets, Aladdin touched the Metal Vessel. “Amon?”

The Seal glowed.

“Shh. Don’t talk, just listen,” Aladdin said quietly. “You’re going to have to help me keep an eye on him. He trusts us, but he doesn’t _know_ us. Not yet. So he’s not going to tell us what’s going on. But we know Alibaba, and when he looks like that....”

The Seal flickered, like an aggravated bob of a head.

“...Then we know he’s going to do something _really stupid_.”

 


	5. Breakfast of Assassins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Picking up the pieces and getting to know your fellow dungeon-crawlers. And finding out Fanalis kitten eyes should be illegal.

The soft springiness under him was far too comfortable to be the couch.

_Damn it, Simon_. Ja’far blinked at the late-morning sunlight filtering past thick green curtains. _I should stab you just to keep in practice. Just because I’m not an active assassin in this life doesn’t mean I’m safe to sleep with-_

A deep breath brought the scent of something wonderful, and a firmly suppressed desire to drool. _Waffles and maple syrup. Curse you, Simon, and your unerring ability to find an opponent’s weak spot_.

“Breakfast!” Simon cheerily announced from the doorway. “Or, well, lunch. Kind of. You and Aladdin really did a number on that healing spell. I think I lost some aches I didn’t know I had.”

“Be glad that’s all you lost,” Ja’far grumbled, metallic pencil wand tucked into his shirt by his knives as he looked for his shoes. And his pants, damn it, Simon. “I doubt Aladdin understands exactly how fragile modern humans are. A healing spell that thorough can rob all your body’s reserves if the caster’s not careful-”

A green-edged robe almost hit him in the face.

Snatching silky pale cloth out of the air, Ja’far glared at the thrower.

“We’re in my apartment, and we’re going to have a nice, relaxing meal,” Simon said, utterly unfazed. “If you want to dress up like something out of an adventure movie, no one’s even going to blink.”

Ja’far sighed. The trick to dealing with Simon was learning to pick your battles. Let him have the moderately outrageous ideas, and save your strength for, _no, we are not having crocodile-juggling classes, the ASPCA would murder us in our beds_.

...Besides. Being dressed in Sindria’s colors was always comforting.

Syrup, waffles, citrus, and enough slightly burnt sausages to make even a Fanalis happy. Ja’far set to with a will, trying not to chuckle. Simon’s bachelor pad was like his cooking; not entirely neat and tidy, but far from unlivable. Which was a good thing, given Simon was all too likely to end up with two young housemates within weeks. Alan might be good at being invisible, but Aladdin was a _Magi_. One storm, one serious injury, one excuse to use magic, and, well-

“Hip pocket nuke?”

Fork still in mouth, Ja’far plucked it out and swallowed. “Did I say that?”

“Ja’far.” Simon set his own fork down. “What kind of power are we dealing with, here?”

_Better to tell him the truth_. “A Metal Vessel User who truly knew how to use their Djinn was one of the most dangerous people in the world,” Ja’far said steadily. “I’ve seen volcanoes ripped up from beneath the crust. Tidal waves that could have drowned a whole island. Mountains vanished and teleported to crash on top of an abomination out to destroy everything that lived.”

Simon was staring at him, for once not a hint of laughter in his face.

“Basically?” Ja’far stated. “Think of an item, a _partnership_ , that enables a human being to summon F5-plus tornadoes. _And target them_.”

Silent, Simon rested his elbows on the table, and dropped his chin onto interlaced fingers.

_Thinking. Good_. Ja’far took the chance to finish his meal. He suspected he’d need it.

“...And you’d trust me with this.”

“You more than anyone,” Ja’far admitted. “You, Alibaba, most of the rulers of the Alliance of Seven Seas - you never wanted power for power’s sake. Sindria only went on the offensive when someone attacked Sinbad’s people.” He smirked. “Of course, if someone _did_ , you crushed them. I’ve never had any problems with that. Sindria was a refuge for people who had nowhere left to run. We warned people to leave us alone.”

“Alibaba,” Simon murmured. Lifted his head. “Alan has a Djinn.”

“And right now that’s a two-edged sword,” Ja’far said grimly. “A Djinn’s power isn’t free. It drags the magoi right out of you, every time you wield it. Calling fire like he did to warn off the dragon - that’s one of Amon’s weakest abilities. And you saw how it flattened him. I don’t know what Aladdin’s thinking! Even the strongest human warrior in this world can’t support a Djinn, any more than I can call a fireball with _Halharl_ -”

Fire blazed over his fingers.

Ja’far did not go over backward in his chair. Or squeak. If only because he could _feel_ the spell trying to drag strength from him, and habits of this lifetime fought to shut it down before it bit too deeply.

His fingers closed, and the flame went out.

_Not possible. That’s_....

Simon was _grinning_ at him. “No fireballs, huh?”

_I didn’t have my wand out. I didn’t use the ritual incantations, or components; all the slow ways Magnos has pieced together, to alter magoi that really doesn’t want to move. All I should have gotten was a little warmth in my fingers_. Ja’far shook out his hand, waiting for the crushing drain of magic to hit. Though it should have already, fast enough to send him face-down on the table. “That was impossible!”

“Obviously not.” Behind the laughter, Simon’s tone was serious. “So what’s changed?”

Ja’far tried not to swear. “Outside of a Magi, two Djinn, and a dungeon-”

_Oh no_.

He shoved up his sleeve, looking at unblemished pale skin where a wyvern had bitten him. Laid his fingers where the bite had been, and reached out with the senses of a magician attuned to Life Magic.

_The rukh is singing_.

Singing, and shimmering, almost as bright as it was around Aladdin. Which _should not happen_ , around anyone born of this world.

“Simon?” Ja’far kept his voice very calm. It was that or pull out his very sharpest knives to start hunting down an idiot kid Magi. “This is going to sound strange. But I need you to check your magoi.”

Simon gave him a look askance. Folded his hands against each other, and closed his eyes.

Ja’far braced himself, as light glowed around his friend’s fingers. Silver... and a hint of gold he hadn’t seen in this lifetime. _And three, two, one_ -

Simon’s eyes shot open, and he bolted out of his chair. “What on _Earth?_ ”

“Not Earth,” Ja’far stated. “Alma Torran.” He was going to hurt something. Preferably a blue-haired idiot Magi who’d never seen all the old Sham Lash techniques. “ _Those won’t hurt you_ \- the wyverns were magoi! Not paralytic bites, that was energy _overloading our nerves_ , I am going to-”

Simon caught him by the shoulder before he could draw a knife. “I thought you said all dungeon creatures have magoi. That that’s what makes them insanely dangerous - they can mutate, or regenerate, or a host of other things.”

“All of them _have_ it, yes,” Ja’far bit out. Damn it, he wouldn’t be so angry if he weren’t so _scared_. If Aladdin thought they needed this - if Baal had _set this up_ \- what was coming that they’d have to fight? “Those wyverns weren’t anything else! They were _constructs_. When they bit us-”

“The energy went into us,” Simon concluded, watching him carefully. “Is this going to hurt us? It feels....” He took a breath, and shook his head, taking a step back. “It feels like riding a hurricane.”

“I don’t know,” Ja’far admitted, trying not to shudder. _Simon with even part of his old strength back? The world will never know what hit it_. “I can’t find any damage. But I don’t know if bodies born in this world were meant to handle this much energy....” _Admit the truth_. “We’re caught in someone else’s plan, Simon. I wasn’t with you when Baal’s dungeon was first cleared, I don’t know what he was like - but Djinn don’t often change their minds.”

Simon’s eyes narrowed, alert and dangerous. “You think when he agreed to Aladdin’s plan, he already had something similar in mind.”

“But why?” Ja’far insisted. “What are they planning, what are we going to face-”

Simon arched a brow at him, confident as if he stood on a ship’s prow. “Did you ever think that it might just be time?”

_What?_

“You recognized Malachy,” Simon stated. “Didn’t you.”

As if he could ever miss Masrur. Fanalis left an impression. “Well, of _course_ I-”

_Wait. No. Simon’s been trying to get me to meet him for almost three years, and something always came up. Plumbing, car wrecks, part of the Scenic Highway collapsing - there was always_ something. _And the universe just doesn’t do that to Simon. But it wouldn’t let him bring us together, until... the dungeon_....

Simon watched him realize it, and nodded. “Here we are. The two of us, Malachy, Tiberon, Morgan - and if Alan being dragged down here wasn’t Fate playing favorites, I’ll turn in my coupon for palm readings. We’re Aladdin’s allies, yes? People he needs, to help a Magi last long enough to learn to survive in this world without breaking it.”

Ja’far couldn’t look away from those eyes. “I... yes, but... Aladdin said Callimachus broke in to drag him out early!”

“Ah. But _how_ early?” Simon said pointedly. “A century? A decade?” He shrugged. “A few months?”

_The Rukh loves Aladdin_ , Ja’far recalled. _If there was any way it could arrange for him to have friends and allies around him, it would. And... there wouldn’t be any point to all of us being reborn, just to die again before he could ever arrive_....

“Whoa, easy there!” Simon gripped his shoulders to hold him up. “What’s wrong? Ja’far, talk to me!”

“...I’m home.” He shrugged out from under Simon’s hands, and leaned right up against a familiar chest. This close, he didn’t even have to look at the swarm of rukh around them. He could feel it singing, welcoming back kings and generals from endless ages gone. “I’m not going to lose you again.”

“You... thought...?” Simon’s arm wrapped around him, warm and comforting. “Why?”

“Because you’re just as crazy as you ever were, and you were so _fragile_ ,” Ja’far whispered. “You have no idea what you can do. What your soul always knew you _could_ do, if the world was different.”

“I still don’t.” Simon tapped his nose, and grinned. “But I’m looking forward to finding out.”

_Wait. There’s something in that look_ -

“Though we are going to have to keep an eye out,” Simon said gravely. “After all, if Fate has arranged for this many of Aladdin’s allies to turn up, it’s only a matter of time before we’ll have to deal with Sinbad.”

Ja’far clamped his lips together, unable to trust himself. _Don’t laugh. Don’t laugh... oh, Solomon_....

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m looking forward to it,” Simon winked at him. “The scrapes he got into! I get the feeling we could just set up the cameras and let them run, and we’d have a movie free for the editing.”

“You’re... not wrong....” Ja’far managed to choke out. _I’m going to die. Right here. Right now. Laughed to death_.

“Though given the folklore - and your stories! - we’ll have to be careful to keep that ego in check,” Simon mused. “I grant you, being able to read the flow of the universe would give a man _reason_ to be overconfident, but I suspect a world with heavily armed cops and nuclear reactors is going to be just a bit trickier to handle than man-eating monsters. We’ll have to keep an eye on him. Do you think Malachy would be enough of a babysitter, or are we all going to have to trade off?”

“Trade off,” Ja’far got out. “Definitely.”

“Yes, you’re right; a man who could get himself tossed into a pleasure quarter for _matriarchal women_ is not to be trusted on his own,” Simon said wryly. “Especially not around our students. He’d probably make a gallant speech and get them to charge the capital and replace it with an elected monarchy, or vote in mandatory monster-hunts as a citizenship requirement to graduate from high school, or something even weirder. Though given our current crop of politicians none of those sound like a bad idea... Ja’far?”

Burying his face in Simon’s shoulder, Ja’far cackled.

* * *

_Fire. And freedom_.

Alan grimaced, not opening his eyes, hearing Morgan’s words of longing all over again. All the dreams he remembered seemed to center around them. Walking through a circle of fire, as the sky went black. Breathing heat like a spring breeze, hair an odd heavy weight as he slashed down three-eyed darkness. Standing in endless night, until a brother’s tear turned it to bright sky.

_No! Don’t go. I came to save you. We’re friends; we’re brothers! I don’t care if you made some bad choices. I’m here now, let me help_ -

“Cassim!”

“It’s okay!” A familiar hand gripped his shoulder, holding him down with more than just muscle. “Alibaba. _Alan_. It’s okay, it’s over, wake up....”

_I’m crying_.

Alan swallowed tears, and wiped off the rest with the heel of his hand. Blinked at long, familiar blue, for once hanging loose; Aladdin was going to be borrowing his comb this morning, he just knew it....

And it didn’t matter, next to the grief. “I couldn’t save him.”

“You couldn’t save his body,” Aladdin said firmly, fingers warm on his shoulder even through his t-shirt. “But you did save him.”

“Doesn’t even make sense.” Alan sat up gingerly, heart still hurting. “Feels like... if I just turned around, he should be there.”

“Well.” Aladdin hesitated, then gave him a determined look. “That’s because he kind of is.”

Alan stared at him.

Aladdin tugged at a pillow, then sat back against it himself. “Close your eyes. I think I can show you.”

_What?_

Aladdin’s hand closed on his, and the world was light.

Endless sky above, blue and streaked with clouds. Endless sky below, as if they stood in perfectly still water. Just himself, and Aladdin, and....

Someone chuckled. _“Right behind you, you idiot.”_

A ghostly image, in the corner of Alan’s gaze. Long, thick dark hair. A wry, bittersweet smile. And eyes he knew were yellow as a fox’s, even through the glowing light. “I know you.”

_“You always did. Better than I did, sometimes.”_ The hand that gripped his left was lean and strong, rough with callus from hard work and harder knife-work. _“Man, you never quit finding trouble, do you?”_ The voice softened, just a little. _“I’m sorry about Mom, too.”_

“If I’d just been there-!”

_“You don’t know that. Idiot.”_ Ghostly fingers gave him a flick on the ear. _“And what is this? You’re a guy! Show off.”_

“I don’t even know what you’re talking about....” Alan swallowed hard. “Cassim?”

_“Heh. So the little twerp can help you remember.”_ The spirit gave Aladdin a long, skeptical look. _“Great. Now I know you’re going to be in even_ more _trouble.”_

“Like you ever had _too much_ trouble,” Alan challenged him.

_“Ha! Got me there. I love trouble.”_ Cassim grinned. _“And if I love it, you love it.”_ Fox eyes were suddenly serious. _“And that went both ways, remember? We gave each other a piece of ourselves. All the way to the heart.”_

Alan glanced at Aladdin’s wide eyes, and back at the brother he’d never had in this life. Except he _had_. “You’ve always been there. You’re... how I _know_ things....”

_“About real bad guys? Who you can bluff, who you can back down, who you’d damn well run from? You’d better believe it. You and hard-luck cases - you’ve got a magnet for people in trouble, you know that? The rukh shoves ‘em right toward you.”_ Translucent lips curved in a smile of pure wicked mischief. _“Nice work on that Phaenomena witch. You going to be ready for round two?”_

Alan took a deep breath. “I’m going to try.”

_“Don’t try, Brother._ Do. _”_

Light shimmered, and the sky was gone.

Alan stared up at his bedroom ceiling, and tried to pull his thoughts back into something like rational sense. “That was Cassim.”

“Yeah,” Aladdin said softly. “Part of his rukh stayed with you, after he died.” The magi chuckled, light and serious at the same time. “I guess it’s only fair. The world throws enough trouble at you for two people _all the time_.”

“So, I’m- what? Spiritual Siamese twins?” Alan shot him a sidelong glance.

“No, you’re you,” Aladdin shook his head. “He just gave you part of his power. Because you _needed_ it.” The magi gave him just as searching a look back. “And because he realized you loved him all along, and you always would. That’s what family is.”

_Family_. Alan thought of the other people in this house, and tried not to flinch. “You didn’t have any of your own family left, did you?”

“Ugo’s my family,” Aladdin said firmly. “Maybe I’m Solomon and Sheba’s son, but he’s the one who raised me. And then I met you, and Morgiana, and Baba, and Uncle Sinbad... I have a family. Maybe I haven’t seen you in a long time, but you’re still my family.”

_I have a brother_. Alan slid a glance over to long blue hair. _I have two brothers_. “This is so weird.”

Aladdin sat up, folding his arms around a pillow. “Because this world didn’t have much magic?”

Well, the magic was weird, but- “No,” Alan admitted. “Having... family. I’m not used to - I didn’t think-” Argh. The words didn’t want to come out right. “I feel like you belong right here. But I don’t know....”

“I like watermelons.”

Alan scooted over to the edge of the bed, so he could be sure he was watching all of Aladdin’s grin. “Okay, kind of random.”

“I love flying, but going a long way on a carpet isn’t fun if you don’t know where you’re going to sleep,” Aladdin went on. “I love Ugo, but I didn’t know how much he didn’t tell me until I saw the world for myself. I thought being a good person was just something people _did_. I didn’t know how hard it could be, until I broke Morgiana’s chains and you had to explain how dangerous that was. And I could see when you told me about slaves that you _hated_ it; you just couldn’t change it. And it wasn’t because you didn’t want to. You _did_. But you were alone, and one person can’t fight a whole country.” He touched the flute at his throat. “Maybe I’m a magi, but I’m a human, too. You saved me then, and you saved me this time. I wanted to break the chains, but trying just fed more magoi right into them. I tried poking at Callimachus and Phaenomena through the rukh, but they didn’t think there was any way the chains _could_ break. So that didn’t help either.” He looked down, at Alan’s hands. “But you figured it out. You didn’t break them, you _unlocked_ them. You used your magoi to reach right into the commands, and you told the rukh to _move the other way_. Just like picking a lock.” Blue eyes were bright. “That was awesome!”

Alan frowned, startled. “You say that like you’ve never seen me do it before.”

“Nope!” Aladdin beamed. “That’s new. And it’s a really neat trick!”

_So he doesn’t know me, either? And he’s stuck here with me. That’s... that’s not fair. Not really_. “I like - peaches,” Alan said hesitantly. “Fresh is good. Canned’s good too, less fuzzy.”

Aladdin nodded, focused on him.

“I like to run,” Alan went on. “I’m not the best at it; I’m not the fastest sprinter, and I think people who do marathons are crazy. But I’m good at being faster than the guys with the broken beer bottles, and I can keep it up longer than any of the people who wanted to give us a hard time. I like finding things out, from the little pieces most people think aren’t important. I’d help Mom put it together and post it, and that ended up being supper on the table. And it’s been... three months since she died.” He picked up a pillow, trying not to crawl under it and block out the whole world.

_She’ll never haul me out of trouble again. Never remind me that we’re_ reporters; _sure we’ve got a bias, everybody does, but we_ don’t _get involved. Not unless there’s no other choice. We give people the truth - and if they know you care, they’ll try to bend it. Always._

Truth was what kept them fed. Kept them alive, through harder times than Alan liked to think about; it’d taken his mom a long time to save for a safe, quiet home. Caring about people... that had to come second.

_“Don’t be a hero,”_ Anne had scolded him; one of at least a dozen times, after he’d stepped in on a playground fight to get ambushed by the bully’s best friends. All of whom swore up, down and sideways he’d started it - and who was the principal going to believe, the bastard or sons of the town preachers? _“Heroes get cheers, and thanks - and then sued and tossed into the street. Stay alive, my little locksmith. Be_ smart. _”_

“It hurts,” Aladdin said quietly. “I wish I could help more. But I’m here. I’m going to help, and Morgan is too, and everybody with Uncle Sin- Simon will. You’re not alone.” He planted his chin on a fist. “And Tiburon has lessons today too, right? You promised you’d go. Maybe you didn’t _say_ it, but you promised.”

“...Yeah. I did.” Alan clambered out of bed. “Thanks. Sometimes just getting moving helps.”

“I don’t know,” Aladdin was tugging fingers through tangled hair, frowning. “I think maybe I moved around _too_ much last night.”

Alan stifled a snicker. “All right, Rapunzel, let’s go get you sorted out....” _Wait a minute_. “You’re speaking English!”

Aladdin just grinned.

* * *

Morgan bounced on the balls of her feet as she walked up the porch steps with Uncle Malachy, wishing she could kick off her sandals. But bare feet were something people in this neighborhood only saw on the beach. If then.

Her uncle poked a gentle finger at the doorbell, holding the button down a polite span of seconds before lifting his hand away. “Remember, things are breakable.”

Morgan tried not to smile, thinking about their front door last night, a vase Aunt Shionne had never liked anyway, and Malachy’s quietly sheepish expression.

“Funny,” her uncle said dryly. “I’ll figure it out. Your aunt’s interested in helping with the dungeon runs, if they work out the way Aladdin asked Baal to do it.” He frowned. “Worried about Tiburon.”

Morgan nodded, a little worried herself. Instructor Tiburon was a skilled, intuitive master of anything that had a sharp edge and at least a dozen weapons that didn’t. But he hadn’t believed in magic, he definitely didn’t believe in past lives, and he’d only skeptically believed in magoi after Principal Cavins had used it to thump him over the head. Literally. That’d been one impressive duel. “Alan will help.”

“Someone he won’t kill by accident,” Malachy agreed, voice low as footsteps approached inside. He straightened his shoulders, managing a look of polite looming Dougal and Ianatan still couldn’t pull off, no matter how much they practiced in front of a mirror.

The door opened on a well-coifed middle-aged woman in a classic blue dress, pearls at her ears. “Yes?”

“Mrs. Silversmith?” Malachy inclined his head. “Instructor Malachy MacLea. My niece Morgan and I have come to pick up Alan and Aladdin for lessons.”

...Now _that_ was an interesting expression, Morgan thought. One part stunned amazement at the tall redhead in denim at her door, one part lip-curling distaste at Alan’s name, and at least five parts _nothing to see here, move along_.

Mrs. Silversmith wrestled with herself a moment more, then inclined her head. “Won’t you come in.”

A statement, not a request. Malachy nodded back, politely, and led Morgan inside.

_It’s... very formal in here_ , Morgan decided, looking at polished wood floors, tasteful chairs and wall sconces between windows and paintings, and walls in subtle shades of eggshell and blue pale as noon skies. _And if we do anything even a little active, we’re going to break the place_.

She wondered if Alan had nightmares of setting it on fire. Mrs. Silversmith hadn’t been rude, even if she’d avoided it by the width of a hair. But having to live in the same house with someone who desperately wished you elsewhere had to hurt-

_That scent!_

It was muddled with cologne, and layered with vanilla. But it was like Alan’s. A little. Morgan looked up at a tall, distinguished gentleman in a dark suit, brown hair mostly gone to gray, and tried to keep her expression politely calm. _Where is he, you’d better not have done anything to him, where_ -

“Mr. MacLea?” Mr. Silversmith held out a hand to shake. “I haven’t had the chance to meet most of Alan’s teachers yet.”

Malachy shook it carefully. “So far he’s doing fine.”

Mr. Silversmith nodded, letting go. “I never expected anything else.”

Morgan set her jaw, determined not to insult the man in his own house. _I need to talk to Aunt Shionne about this_.

But she could hear light sandals and sneakers heading down the stairs, and catch that faint scent of fire that had hung around Alan ever since he’d warned off a dragon. Morgan turned that way instead with a smile, feeling relief ease her shoulders as the pair showed up dressed for hard tumbles, Alan carrying Tiburon’s gift wrapped in a tote bag to make it slightly less conspicuous-

“What is that?” Mrs. Silversmith said sharply, eyeing the glint of hilt still exposed as she stood by the door.

“A piece of Instructor Tiburon’s equipment. Ma’am.” Alan stood his ground at the foot of the stairs, letting Aladdin scoot over to Morgan’s side without ever quite coming in Mrs. Silversmith’s line of fire. “He’s asked me to be responsible for it.”

“Part of the theater training,” Malachy put in, low and calm. “Principal Cavins believes there’s no good way to fake weapons handling, on stage or on film. Either you know what you’re doing, or you _don’t_. The audience can sense it.”

“Not that different from court, then,” Mr. Silversmith said mildly, taking a good, long look at Aladdin in what had to be Alan’s borrowed jeans, rolled up several times at the cuffs. “Aladdin Cavins, is it? Nice to meet you at last. I didn’t think two boys could be that quiet.”

Blue eyes gave him a friendly look, even if Morgan could still sense wariness in his stance. “I didn’t want to be any trouble, Mr. Silversmith. Everybody had a really long day yesterday.” Aladdin smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Oh, he was good, Morgan thought, amused. She knew how to use the cute-kitten look for an extra scoop of ice cream, but she’d never seen someone use it to derail a whole household. Alan might just have more breathing room than she’d thought.

“You take after your cousin,” Mr. Silversmith murmured. “Let’s hope you always use your powers for good.”

Morgan tried not to be too obvious in shoving Aladdin behind her. _Does he know?_

Alan was looking past all of them, though; back up the stairs to the landing, where a tall, dark-haired young man with Mr. Silversmith’s build was clinging white-knuckled to the railing. “Everything okay, Sam?”

Sam swallowed, obviously not happy to be there. “You’re... Instructor MacLea, right?”

Malachy nodded, quiet and patient as he was with the smallest students who showed up in his classes. Morgan frowned, but kept herself as calm and quiet, watching how Mrs. Silversmith tensed at her son’s presence. It wouldn’t do any good to scare off a man who might not even have done anything yet.

“And you’re taking Alan to... Instructor Tiburon,” Sam went on. “I... did some research on what you both do, the stunts and... isn’t it kind of... dangerous?”

Morgan blinked. _He cares. At least a little_.

“Don’t worry!” Aladdin latched on to Alan’s arm. “I’m going to be right with him. You don’t think Uncle Simon would toss me into trouble, do you?”

Morgan traded a glance with Alan, and wondered if her stifled laugh was as obvious to him as his blush was to her.

“But it’s really nice that you were worried,” Aladdin said earnestly. “You should come watch the training sometime! It could be fun.”

From the way Sam paled, that was _not_ his idea of fun.

“It’s an option,” Malachy nodded. “I have to warn you, though. Tiburon can be... a little flashy.”

* * *

Tiburon’s floor was hard, damn it.

_At least it’s not stone_.

An impression more than a thought; polished wood hard and just a little slick against side, knee, toes as Alan hit the floor and rolled inside the range of Tiburon’s longsword.

_Tendon, artery in the groin_ -

Knee. This was a spar. Blunt steel.

Tiburon skipped sideways to dodge, using the distance to bring his blade in and down-

But Alan was up on one knee already, blade angled and braced with his off hand to let the sword slide harmlessly away. Only for a second... but a second was all he needed.

_In!_

“Hold!”

Blunt tip above Tiburon’s kidney, Alan froze.

The room seemed to fade back in, a whole class of sword students barely whispering as they watched, while Morgan, Aladdin, and Malachy hung out by the door. Aladdin was grinning, Morgan had a cat-smile that had spooked some of the guys into edging a bit farther away from her, and Malachy’s straight face had distinct overtones of smug.

“Right.” Tiburon was breathing deeply as he faced the rest of the class. “So let me sum up, for anyone who missed it the first time. This is Alan. He’s one of Simon’s foundlings. Your guess is as good as mine for how Simon found him; I think he’s got a special magnet he waves over the underbrush to drag out weirdness. It’s how he found me. You’ve never seen a survivalist embarrassed until you’ve seen him realize a movie star helped you haul him and his broken leg out of grizzly fishing grounds. And you’ve met Vice-Principal Ja’far Zvezdilin, right? Bureaucrat, bio teacher, ninja? Of course he says he’s _not_ a ninja... which is exactly what a ninja would say.” Tiburon winked at the class. “Anyway. Due to circumstances I’m not at liberty to go into, some idiot apparently left him half-trained. So I’m going to be doing extra work with him so _nobody gets hurt_.”

Getting his breath back, Alan looked over the pale and serious faces aimed his way. _Were we that scary?_

“Instructor MacLea’s going to be hauling him off every once in a while too,” Tiburon went on. “There’s actually a good reason for Alan to be getting thrown around by our friendly local bone-breakers, so try not to give him too much grief about it.” He paused. “Of course, if that goes too well, Malachy might try to adopt him, too. I keep telling the family kidnapping people with sword-training into the clan kind of has an innate flaw, but Mrs. Shionne just says that’ll make swords versus fists a family fight, and those are the most fun.” He shrugged. “I swear, MacLea kitten eyes ought to be illegal.”

That unwound some of the tension in Alan’s fellow students. He was glad to see that, even if the giggles and looks of sympathy were a little daunting.

“I want you all to think about what you just saw,” Tiburon said seriously. “That’s the kind of thing you would _not_ do on camera unless you choreographed every move ahead of time _first_. He may not have been trying to kill me but he was definitely trying to put me down for the count. Which is what you would do, if you ever had to use this in a real fight.” He walked into the center of the floor, loosening one arm at a time. “Note that I took his feet out from under him, more than once. In many sword-styles that would be a deciding move; you need a rooted stance to do real damage. Alan? _Does not care_. He’s using a short blade and his own body for all his leverage; he’s almost as dangerous tumbling on the floor as he would be with a full lunge. His style doesn’t depend on the momentum of a long sword. It depends on razor steel _slicing you to ribbons_.”

Alan gulped. He wasn’t the only one.

“Second, note how his style played to his advantages,” the instructor went on. “Alan’s a _runner_. Light and fast. He doesn’t do macho; he doesn’t try to out-muscle me. That would be too much like fighting fair - and in a real fight, you _never, ever_ fight fair. I teach stage-fighting _and_ armed self-defense. Do not use one where you need the other. Never fool yourselves into thinking stage-fighting will help you in a real fight. I _do not like funerals_. And I damn well don’t want to go to yours.”

_Whoof_. Alan nodded, along with half the rest of the class. The other half was still pale.

“Third, note he used no _kiai_ ,” Tiburon said bluntly. “This is not the flashy style beginning directors would want for their big picture. It’s quiet, more subtle, and _much_ more up-close and personal. Which means a good director - someone who wants to give the audience characters, not just flash and bang - is going to find this _interesting_.”

Now there were more eyes on him. Alan gulped for reasons that had nothing to do with visions of bloodshed, and wished he could sink through the floor.

“But one thing this style takes is a lot of nerve,” Tiburon said soberly. “He has to get inside my range, or I’ll cut him down like firewood. If I can keep him at a distance - either through use of cover, or working with a partner - he’s a dead man. Every style has its advantages, and its drawbacks.” He glanced around the room, as Morgan gave Alan a thumbs-up and Malachy scooped a protesting Aladdin up over his shoulder to head over to _their_ class. “So! Bear in mind you can’t ask him where he learned this, or who from... who has questions?”

_Oh boy_.

* * *

“Owww....” Aladdin slumped back against the odd slick seats Morgan and Alan called plastic, aching in places he hadn’t even _felt_ since the last time Instructor Myers had taken Magnostadt students through a workout. “Why does it hurt so much...?”

“Takes practice,” Morgan noted, putting one of the paper dishes she’d gotten from their server in front of him. _51 flavors and counting_ , were inked on the side. “Here.”

Aladdin regarded the odd half-curves of cold creamy stuff in the dish. One was white with flecks of black, the other a dark brown with darker swirls. “What _is_ this?”

“Vanilla and chocolate chocolate fudge,” Alan shrugged, digging a spoon into his own dark lumps. “Most people like one or the other. Or both. You might like coffee too, but you already like coffee, try something different.”

Aladdin dug a spoon into the one like snow, eyeing how Morgan’s dark-with-cherry bits and Alan’s incredibly dark were disappearing. “And what’s yours?”

“Deep dark chocolate,” Alan mumbled around a spoonful. “Come to the Dark Side... we have chocolate....”

Aladdin eyed the swirls of rukh around the pair of them, but it was brighter than ever, bits of gold sparkling in silver like a scatter of diamond dust. Obviously this was going to be one of those weird things Ugo hadn’t told him about. But Alan was eating this with Morgan, so it was _probably_ not something people tossed you out of taverns for doing in public.

He dug into the vanilla first anyway. Just to be safe.

_Ooo sweet cold yummy_ cold _ow more!_

“Whoa, whoa, slow down!” Alan patted his shoulder across the table. “You’ll get brain-freeze. That’s no way to introduce yourself to ice cream.”

“’S _good!_ ” Aladdin mumbled. “Like some of the spice-drinks in Sindria. Only _cold!_ ” You could get cold stuff in Sindria, even if it was tropical. It just took some magic. Yamraiha had made ice for drinks a lot, especially for Hinahoho and his family. “So wha’s chocolate-”

Oo. Sweet _and_ bitter, like someone had made coffee sweet enough to warm you clear through. And rich enough that he knew Sinbad would have stocked this on trading vessels to everywhere. Assuming he could pry it away from Yamraiha, Sharrkan, and Ja’far. All of them loved coffee-like stuff, and Ja’far would have been _pointy_ about it.

Okay. Some things about this world? Were _awesome_.

Especially the way his friends were trying not to giggle at him. He could still feel sadness in the rukh around Alan, like a ghost of smoke. But there was _happy_ ringing through it now, like his friend was finally starting to feel the world around him with his own heart, not through an icy veil of grief.

_Well, I know how to help that_. Quick as a dragonfly, Aladdin darted a spoon into Alan’s bowl.

“Oi!”

“Ooo,” Aladdin mumbled around his stolen goodies. It wasn’t quite as sweet as his ice cream, but the flavors were even richer. “This is even better!” Spoon in hand, he grinned mischief, and dove again.

“Oh no you don’t!” Alan jerked his bowl left, up, right, left, down-

Aladdin giggled, chasing the ice cream across the table. Funny how most people thought magicians just needed _magic_. Good aim, the ability to predict what you were up against, even the skill to crack something over its head with a staff - all of those could be difference between a dead magi and a live one. Alibaba had always been willing to help him play with what he could do. Even if that ended up with him soaked to the skin from Yamraiha’s water magic.

_Alan wants to play too_. Aladdin stole another spoon of dark chocolate, seeing Morgan sit back and finish her own with a grin, watching her friends show off.

“Boys,” one of the servers chuckled, walking by with a platter of different dishes for a table full of younger kids down at the other end of the shop.

“You should see what they do in the dojo,” Morgan smiled back.

“Okay, okay,” Alan said, pulling his bowl back toward himself. “Let’s finish it off before it melts. It’s better still a little frozen.”

“Oh.” Aladdin reached for his wand. “I can freeze it-”

Morgan’s hand landed on his. “Not in public,” she warned. “Eat. We’ll talk.”

Oh. Serious, then. Aladdin applied himself to his ice cream, and lowered his voice. “Right. Most people haven’t seen a lot of magic-”

“Most people haven’t seen _any_ ,” Morgan corrected him. “Not that they knew was magic. My family knows about it because of who we are. We’re strong, and people sometimes think that’s not natural, so we have to know about how to explain things that look strange. And because we know how to do that, and help other people do that... sometimes we end up with magicians in the family, too.”

“You do?” Aladdin said, startled. He’d met a few half-Fanalis before, sure. But marrying magicians? Wow.

“People who are different have to stick together,” Morgan said seriously. “You have to know who’s safe, and-” she hesitated, “-who wants to use you.”

_Ouch_. “But keeping yourself away from ordinary people isn’t the answer, either,” Aladdin said, determined. “They did that in Magnostadt. A _magician’s country_. And it all went wrong. Fanalis and magicians are different from other people. That doesn’t mean they’re better than anyone else. Or worse.”

“But they’re different, and that can scare people,” Alan reflected. “Especially the ones who think everybody ought to be the same. Think the same way, act the same way, agree on all the same things....”

Aladdin groaned, thinking of Ren Kouen, and how much he still wished he’d bopped the guy over the head the first time they’d met instead of trying to talk to him. It would have been a mistake, they’d needed every Metal Vessel User they had to deal with the Medium, but boy, he’d wished Sinbad had zapped the guy with just _one_ measly little lightning bolt. “Yeah. I wish I had some easy answers. People aren’t easy.”

“And that is the beginning of true wisdom, Grasshopper,” Alan said archly. Looked away, eyes distant. “Anyway. I’d kind of guess anyone who can... do something a little odd... would try to keep it under the radar. Er - out of sight.”

_Huh_. Aladdin chased a last melty drop of vanilla as he tried to puzzle out that remark. He already knew Alan could use magoi on locks, and Morgan already knew Alan could fight like somebody out of the past, and Alan knew what _they_ could do, so why was Alan bringing up... other... people....

_Alibaba always finds people in trouble_.

And who’d be in more trouble, than magicians in a world that didn’t believe in magic? That was _scared_ of magic?

Aladdin traded a worried glance with Morgan. She winced, and shook her head slightly. Straightened her shoulders, as if nothing had happened. “That’s usually what happens,” she observed. “If there are... families... of magicians and magoi-users, they tend to keep things secret. It takes a lot to earn their trust.” She smiled faintly. “You don’t know how much faith Principal Cavins inspires in people, to get a magician like Vice-Principal Ja’far to live with regular humans. Or to get my family to be as open as they are, teaching others with Instructor Tiburon. He makes us feel safe.”

Okay, so Morgan was clued in enough to make the same guess he was: Alan wasn’t just hiding something, he was hiding _people he cared about_. So when Alan finally hit a boiling point and went running off to take on the bad guys all by himself, Morgan would be there to flick him on the ear. Whew. “Uncle Simon’s always been amazing,” Aladdin agreed. Though Simon probably wasn’t quite as outrageously strange as Sinbad had been, given Sindria’s king had sacrificed a lot of what had made him a Singularity so Aladdin _could_ change the rukh.

_I kind of don’t think Ja’far will mind_ , Aladdin almost chuckled. _Even Sinbad seemed happy enough about_ not _being so much of a whirlpool of Fate, anymore_. “So what’s magic like these days?” _Because it’s going to be changing. And I need to know what it’s changing from_.

“I don’t know a lot. We should ask Ja’far.” Morgan glanced down, thoughtful. “I know most spells are very small, or need components where the magician’s stored magoi for a long time-”

“You mean most magicians store magoi?” Aladdin blurted out. “I thought only Yamraiha knew that trick.”

Morgan’s eyes widened. “What kind of magician could do anything more than a spark without storing it? It’s so hard to move any magoi at all, magicians drain off a drop at a time and lock it up in foci for spells. That’s how my family makes keys to break Fomoire chains. Isn’t that what your wand is for?”

Fanalis stored magoi to make a Magic Tool? Oof. Okay, things were really different here. “I’m a magi,” Aladdin told her. “The rukh gives me all the magoi I need for magic, unless something goes really wrong.” He smiled sheepishly. “But I found out the hard way I have to exercise a lot to make sure I’ve got my own if things do go wrong.” He leaned his elbows on the table, keeping his voice low. “So Ja’far’s wand - it’s not just a focus like my turban is, even when I’ve got it hidden in my pocket. It’s where he’s keeping the magoi he needs for spells?” He cast a glance at Alan. “You’re right; people with magic do have a good reason to hide. Back in Sindria, if someone grabbed your wand and you had some training, you could still protect yourself with a Borg. Here, if they get your power - you’re in real trouble.”

_Good thing Baal’s working on fixing that_.

Aladdin honestly didn’t know what he should tell them about that. It shouldn’t change that much of what Morgan could do; she was Fanalis, she’d just get the strength she should have back. Alan... he wasn’t sure.

_I’m going to make sure he has enough strength for Amon, one way or another_ , Aladdin decided. _The universe won’t stop throwing things at him!_

Which meant he’d better tell them, sooner rather than later. Sinbad might love surprises but Alibaba had almost always _hated_ them.

_No. He didn’t_ hate _them, not really_ , Aladdin admitted to himself. _He just wasn’t sure he could handle them_.

“You said the rukh gives you magoi?” Alan was studying him carefully. “I thought the rukh was like... souls. And magoi was more your own life energy.”

Oof. He hadn’t expected Alan to jump on that so fast. Which was kind of silly; Alibaba could take _any_ problem apart once he had a little time to sit back and think. And Alan already knew about Cassim.

Aladdin put his hands on top of each other, thinking. “It’s hard to explain,” he admitted, “and I think it’s going to take me a lot of trying. But everything that lives, everything that _exists_ , has rukh. Even earth and water. When something’s born, its rukh comes out of the Great Flow to live here. When someone dies, their rukh goes back into the flow. Most of the time.”

“Wait. Are you saying I’m _haunted?_ ” Alan said in disbelief.

Aladdin shrugged. “Just a little?”

“Haunted?” Morgan glanced between them, turning her empty bowl between her fingers as if she was considering tossing it like a mini-missile.

“Long story, and I don’t get it all yet,” Alan told her. “Basically....” His fingers groped air for the right words. “Seems like someone decided I couldn’t stay out of trouble.”

“Well, you really can’t,” Aladdin said ruefully.

Alan gave him an aggravated look. “You know, you sound kind of giggly when you say that.”

“...Maybe?” Aladdin tried not to chuckle too much. “You care about people. Of course you get in trouble.” He took a deep breath. “Anyway. Your rukh gives you magoi to live. So does mine. But I’m a magi, and that means all the rukh cares about me. So it lets me take magoi - just a _little_ \- from everything around me when I need it. But if you spread a little over a whole landscape....”

“Like borrowing a penny from everyone’s account,” Alan reflected. “Do it for a whole bank, you’re talking real money.”

Aladdin frowned. “What’s a bank?”

“....Ooo boy.” Alan let his head thump on the table.

Okay, he definitely had to tackle Alan about that later. “But part of the problem was, there was more than one kind of rukh,” Aladdin stated. “There was white rukh, which came from people trying to live their lives as they were meant to be, and be happy. And there was black rukh, when people tried to go against fate, and give up their choices to something else. And for a long time, the two kinds _really_ didn’t like each other.”

Alan lifted his head. “Didn’t like? As in nyah nyah pfui on you, or _‘Kill! Crush! Destroy!’_ ”

“Um....”

“Destroy,” Morgan said, unflinching.

“...It was a lot more complicated than that,” Aladdin admitted. “It had to do with how people got the rukh to be one way or the other. Al-Thamen did... horrible things, to get the power they wanted. But I think I fixed that.”

Gold and cranberry eyes stared him down.

“No, really, I did,” Aladdin said, certain of it. “Uncle Sinbad helped. I was from Alma Torran, but he was a miracle born in _that_ world, and he could balance the white and the black inside himself without ever Falling all the way. And he... he gave that to me, so I could fix the world. Because he never wanted to be king for himself. He wanted to save other people.” He straightened. “We changed the rukh, so white and black all became part of the same flow. Now rukh can get really dark, but it should never be completely black again. Dark rukh’s still not _safe_. But... man-eating plants aren’t safe either. They’re dangerous, but they won’t kill the whole world.”

“Rukh.” Alan sounded like he was tasting the word. “Kind of comes out in my head like... soul-birds.”

Aladdin nodded.

“When Callimachus....” Alan felt at his wrists. “I saw - something like black birds. Or butterflies.”

“Dark rukh,” Aladdin said, relieved. “So you _can_ still see it. At least when there’s a lot.”

Morgan was looking between them, a frown creasing her brows. “I didn’t see anything. Just a feeling of darkness.”

“Most people don’t,” Aladdin informed her. “There has to be a really big flow, maybe even a whole Djinn battle, before the rukh gets thick enough that you’d see it. Magicians can see it all the time,” a cold doubt swept him, “at least they could on that world....”

Alan touched his hand. “We’ll ask Ja’far.”

_You’re a good friend_. “Alan, a lot of other people who end up with Djinn - they’re kind of in-between,” Aladdin went on. “They can’t see it all the time, but they _can_ see it when there’s enough power to really move something.”

_And that’s important. Kings need that, if they’re going to look after their people. They have to know when things are bad, so they can fix it; and when they’re good, so they can leave it alone_.

Not that Aladdin planned to get into _that_ any time soon. Pushing Alibaba to take care of all of Balbadd when he _wasn’t ready_ had almost been a disaster.

...No, no _almost_ about it. If Sinbad hadn’t been there everything would have gone to pieces. As it was, Alibaba had done everything he could, and still lost so much.

And then Kouen had invaded _anyway_ , and _gah_. One little lightning bolt. Seriously. Kouen deserved it.

“I wonder if that’s where the legends come from,” Alan said, half to himself. Caught himself at their looks, and shrugged. “A lot of people have legends of soul-butterflies. There’s places down in Central America where Obsidian Butterfly is a goddess, who-” He stopped, eyeing the other patrons just out of earshot. “I’ll let you read those later. Eclipses, star demons that eat people.... Kind of gory.”

_The sky going black. A creature from beyond the sky, that eats everything that lives_. Aladdin shivered. “I think I’d better.” Just in case. He thought he’d fixed everything, but - he had to know.

“As far as I know, those are just stories now.” Alan rested his elbows on their table, gold eyes serious. “We’ve got the printing press, and people have pretty much gone around the globe for centuries. If there were demons coming out of the sky to eat people somebody would have noticed.” He paused. “Though I grant you the Tunguska Blast still trips my weird meter. But that was over a hundred years ago.”

Okay. Okay, that was... better. Maybe not _good_ , not yet, but Alan wouldn’t lie to him about something like this.

Avoid telling him about a _personal problem_ , oo yeah. Argh. Aladdin shook his head - maybe a little too hard. “Ow.”

“Yeah.” Alan rubbed the back of his own neck. “I don’t know if we’ll even be able to move tomorrow. And it’s _Monday_. School is going to hurt.”

“I still want to go,” Aladdin reflected. “I know I have a lot to learn... what?”

“Not going to school? Not an option,” Alan said flatly, as Morgan nodded. “Unless you’re sick.”

Oh. Given he was being told that by one of the masters of getting into and out of places he wasn’t supposed to be, Aladdin had to take that seriously. “Well, I do want to learn about the way things are now. Especially magic. I really want to talk to Ja’far.” He had to shake his head, ow or not. “He’s a magician now. That’s _weird_.”

That got him a smile. “Glad I’m not the only one who has to learn from scratch,” Alan admitted.

“But you’re not,” Aladdin objected.

“Oh yeah,” Alan muttered. “I am. Maybe my head’s got an idea, but my muscles are clueless.” He shrugged. “So far I can fake it. I’ve always been good at keeping my feet, even when the only way up is stairs that are all ice. If I know in my head, I’ve got to put my feet _there_ , I can do it.”

“And footwork is key to a swordfight,” Morgan observed.

“You’ll lose without it, yeah... and I don’t even know how I _know_ that.” Alan had a hand in his hair, frustrated. “But knowing in my head isn’t knowing in my _bones_. You saw me recopying notes. Reading the lesson - that’s knowing in your head. Making your hands shape the words and equations all over again - that makes sure when everything goes crazy and you can’t _think_ , part of you still knows what to do.” He dragged his fingers clear, almost biting his lips. “Maybe our souls know what to do, but our bodies don’t. Just using what’s in my head... it’s like cheating. And I _can’t_ cheat at this. If I guess wrong - it’s too important.”

Oh. And _ow_. “It’s not cheating,” Aladdin told him, determined. “You learned it once, I know Tiburon can help you learn it again. Ja’far and I can help with healing between lessons- and don’t argue! That’s not cheating _either_. A good swordmaster’s supposed to make sure you heal up right before he beats you up in the arena again. Sharrkan always did. This will just help him do it faster.”

“Morgan?” Alan gave her a pleading look.

“I’m a MacLea. We always heal fast.” Dark lashes shaded her gaze in thought; she shrugged. “Callimachus is still out there. When you’re fighting for your life, there is no cheating.”

Red touched Alan’s cheeks. “...Right. Sorry.”

Oh no, Aladdin thought. That was the Sheepishly Responsible look, and that meant Alan was doing it for them, not for himself. Argh. “Don’t you like swords?”

“How would I know?” Gold eyes were wary. “A week ago I’d never touched one before. Then Ja’far shoved me up on stage, and... things have just gotten weirder.”

Handling a sword was weird? “But what do you do if bandits attack?”

“Besides run? Most people call the police.” Alan frowned. “Right. We’d better ask Ja’far if a Borg can stop a bullet.”

“A sling stone?” Aladdin said, puzzled. “Sure.”

Morgan blinked at him. Turned to Alan, apparently bewildered.

“...Not that kind of bullet.” Alan gave him a look askance. “Whatever you pulled to learn English? Had a few gaps in it.”

“That happens,” Aladdin admitted. “Solomon’s Wisdom isn’t as useful as people think.” People didn’t use swords all the time? That must be awesome, if people had stopped going to war and killing each other-

Except bandits still _existed_. And there were weapons these days that didn’t translate to the language he’d known. Alan had seen him cast a Borg that shrugged off a whole falling cavern, yet he was still worried that this world’s bullet might get through.

Putting two and two together, that meant bandits these days used bullets, not swords. And if you needed something like a Borg to _stop_ a bullet-

_Borgs stop anything but magic or a Fanalis_ , Aladdin shivered. _Oh man. No wonder most people don’t learn to fight. What could they_ do?

Well, some of them still thought they could do _something_ , or Malachy wouldn’t have so many students. But _ow_. “So that’s why Uncle Simon wants Baal to let people practice in the dungeon!” Aladdin looked at his friends; trying to see them as they were, not as memory painted them. “Most people... it’s not just that they don’t know how to fight, is it? They don’t know they _can_ fight.”

Morgan nodded once, eyes alight. “Principal Cavins was telling the truth. Whatever magic and power is in there, the greatest gift Baal can give us is the chance to face danger, and learn from it.”

“Wow.” For a moment he could picture Simon dressed up as Matal Mogamett, hat and all. It was kind of awesome and scary, all at once. The rukh stirred around them at the image; bright with hope, and laced with just a whisper of violet defiance of the will of the world.

Aladdin gazed at dancing soul-stuff, a flutter of excitement in his heart. _Simon might change the world more than Sinbad ever did_.

Which almost seemed silly. Sinbad had founded a nation, created an alliance of kingdoms, and led his people to create their dreams. But outside of trying to give Alibaba some tips on Djinn, Aladdin couldn’t remember him really teaching people.

_Sinbad conquered dungeons_ , Aladdin thought. _Simon wants to teach people to_ face _dungeons_.

Wow. That was just- oh, he _had_ to be part of this. “I want to help him.”

“You want to... heh. Of course you do.” Alan’s smile was just a little bittersweet. “If you’re going in, I’m going in. But I’m kind of scared of that place.”

“But you’re going in,” Aladdin said firmly. “Because that’s the kind of person you are.”

“What, crazy?” Alan shot back.

“No.” Aladdin stared into gold eyes. “Brave.”

_Because you are. You knew you were dying, and the first thing you tried to do was make sure someone else got away. You went into Baal’s dungeon because Simon and Ja’far were in trouble, and Tiburon didn’t know what he was running into, and you knew just enough to know he’d get killed without help. You stand your ground in front of your father’s wife and you’re polite, even though she hates you, because... because you_ understand _why she hates you. And you don’t want to hate her back_.

In a way Aladdin could almost feel sorry for her. She couldn’t see Alan glowing in the rukh. She had no idea how that determination and faith that people could be better than they were was already changing the flow of energies in her house. Whether she liked it or not. Those faint wisps of courage around Sam - and if that wasn’t Sabhmad, Aladdin would eat these paper cups - just standing there in front of _strange people_ had probably been the bravest thing Alan’s half-brother had done in years. And he’d even challenged Malachy to do it.  

...Granted, if Sam had had any clue what Malachy could do to anyone who ticked him off, he’d probably have been hiding under the bed.

_But he did know Malachy was dangerous_ , Aladdin thought. _And he asked anyway_.

And Alan was still staring at him, speechless. Like he couldn’t believe anyone could think he was brave.

_Guess some things don’t change easily_. “You know,” Aladdin said, as if it’d just occurred to him, “if I know Uncle Simon, he’s going to want to go back in there before we have school again. Just to check it out, before he brings other students in.” He rested his chin on his fists, and tried not to grin too broadly. “So... are we going in there all sore and achy, or are you going to let me cheat?”

 


	6. A funny thing happened on the way to Chernobyl....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think Simon and Ja'far met in any way normal, did you?

Sitting on the gym bleachers to sort out the ‘can’t possibly avoid’ paperwork, Simon watched his three best friends in the world attack each other and have the time of their lives. Ja’far was a gliding viper, rope-knives snapping out to sting, tangle, or deflect. Malachy was a great red tiger, waiting to ambush, then striking with overwhelming force. And Tiburon was a laughing ronin, in and out with a blunted blade, green eyes dancing as he tried to slice Ja’far out of the air.

“Hold!”

Ja’far flopped down onto the bleachers by Simon, breathing hard. “I am _so_ out of practice.”

Tiburon and Malachy looked at him, then each other, and exchanged evil grins.

Simon flipped another page. Hmph, city council wanted a referendum on using more taxes to support public schools. Hancock wasn’t public, why did they even send him these things? “You realize you just gave them carte blanche to go all-out for the foreseeable future.” He shredded that page with satisfaction. “Just to help you get back in shape, of course.”

Ja’far’s smirk was even more evil. The smirk of an assassin.

“And that was your plan all along,” Simon realized. “Having fun?”

“...A little,” Ja’far admitted.

Meaning quite a bit. Simon tried not to smile too broadly. He hadn’t seen Ja’far this relaxed in... well, possibly ever. Since they’d met, the magician seemed to think it was his duty to keep hauling Simon out of one mess after another. Whether he wanted to be hauled out or not.

_But now he can relax_ , Simon concluded. _Malachy and Tiburon are on the case_.

_Damn, I wish the universe had let me get them together sooner_.

“Don’t pull on that innocent mask.” Tiburon sheathed his practice blade, and set it in his gym bag to trade for a scabbard that held live steel. “I’m getting enough of that from Alan, thanks. Do you know he really thinks he’s as meek and mild as he looks?”

“It’s going to take you weeks to break him of that,” Ja’far warned. “Maybe less if Aladdin’s in serious danger-”

“Or maybe more,” Simon put in, not happy at the thought. “People tend to cling to patterns that work. Especially under stress.”

“Oh good, you know that this time,” Ja’far murmured.

Hmm. That sounded both ominous and like something he’d better get Ja’far to go over with him in painful detail. Later. For now, he had an adult swordsman to look after.

“You two,” Tiburon glanced between them, hooking on his live blade, “have been holding out on me!”

“Yes,” Malachy said bluntly.

“You work with Special Forces,” Ja’far said, almost as blunt. “Fanalis and magicians both have bad histories with governments. They tend to regard us as tools, not as people.” He sheathed his knives, and drew his wand with a reflective air, a spark glinting between tumbled stones. “But now you’re in magic just as deep as the rest of us. You’ll have to keep our secrets. Or risk getting bitten yourself.”

“Easy, now.” Simon waved a hand before the jabs could go any deeper. “Ja’far, right now you know us better than we do. And certainly better than Malachy knows you. Do you really think Tiburon would betray anyone?”

“No.”

No hesitation. Good-

“Not _deliberately_.” Ja’far sighed, and faced Tiburon’s level green gaze. “You’ve always had a true heart. But Malachy and I - we’re each responsible for more than our own secrets. If someone finds out about us, we have entire clans at risk.” He glanced aside. “And Simon did try to tell you about magoi.”

“Yes, you did,” Tiburon admitted, giving Simon a considering eye. “I thought you were just using New Age... well, typical Hollywood blather. Nothing that belonged with cold steel and knives in the dark.” He straightened his shoulders. “But you were right, I was wrong, so _tell me now_. I teach my students to defend themselves. And now I find out there’s a whole category of threat I never knew existed? I have to fix that.”

“And how will you do that, without giving yourself away?” Malachy said quietly.

Tiburon took a deep breath, and sighed. “I was hoping the rest of you would have ideas.”

“It might end up being a moot point,” Simon reflected. “If magic’s coming back, someone will take a flying carpet over the Washington Memorial. Just wait.”

“Aladdin wouldn’t!” Ja’far objected.

“Who said anything about Aladdin? Human nature is what it is,” Simon shrugged. “If enough people have magic, sooner or later we’ll have some real idiots using it. Which is why we need to have a plan _first_.” He glanced over them all, and nodded toward the school in general. “Lucky for us, we already have a good cover. Incredible feats, explosions, lights and dazzling illusions? We’re _actors_. Thank you, we really are that good, you’re so kind.”

Malachy raised a red brow, and nodded. Ja’far looked worried, but joined in. Tiburon... hesitated.

Simon wove his fingers together. “What’s wrong?”

“Incredible feats,” the swordsman said, half to himself. “Simon, my fighting is- off.”

“Off?” Simon said, incredulous. “I just saw you. You were fantastic!”

Tiburon nodded, slightly pale. “Exactly. That was - I could see-”

“Easy.” Malachy held out a hand. “I can check you.”

Tiburon let him take his arm, poking and prodding. “Check me for-?”

“Increased magoi levels,” Ja’far answered, face as serious as Simon had ever seen it. “I can already tell you the answer is _yes_.”

Points of light bloomed under Malachy’s fingers, and he nodded. “He’s right.”

Tiburon went slightly paler. “And that means?”

“What you’ve already noticed,” Ja’far shrugged. “Your reflexes are faster. You can think just a little faster in a fight. Blows don’t hurt quite as much, or bruise as much, or last as long. And when you’re trying to kill something - really trying to kill something....” A shadowed smile. “The odds are, you will. Unless it’s just as tough as you are.”

“You knew this had happened,” Tiburon murmured, obviously putting the pieces together. “The tower - the _kids-!_ ”

“Will be fine.” Malachy gripped his arm, not letting him pull away. “If your magoi’s too low, you die. Never heard of too much hurting anyone.”

“It can, but none of us have gone anywhere near that limit,” Ja’far informed them. “So far as I’ve been able to tell from checking all of us, even humans born on this world seem to be tolerant of increased magoi levels.” His brows drew down, mentally attacking the situation. “Though I want to check again after the next trip. And I have _questions_ for Aladdin.”

“You mean,” Tiburon flexed his fingers as Malachy finally let go, “this is going to happen to anyone who goes in there?” He cast a dark look at Simon. “And you want to bring the students inside?”

“Want to? We have to.” Simon leaned forward, intent. It might have taken him a bit to think it through, but he’d finally realized why his best friend had gone paper-white at seeing a wonder brought to life. “Tiburon, if Ja’far’s right, and a magi raised the tower on school grounds, there’s nothing to stop them from raising another tower somewhere else. Or ten, or twenty. Someone will try those towers. _Someone_ will get through, sooner or later. And then they’ll have a Djinn at their command, in a world where most of us _can’t use magic_.”  

Tiburon whistled, low and long. “You’re talking about a magical arms race.”

“I hope not,” Ja’far said grimly. “But that’s what happened last time. Kingdoms conquered dungeons, and then the survivors turned on each other. Even kingdoms like Sindria, who told the rest of the world they didn’t want to conquer and they didn’t want to _be_ conquered....” He trailed off, and looked away.

“I don’t think we should toss everyone into the dungeon,” Simon reflected. “We should have sign-up sheets, at the very least.”

...He didn’t deserve that _look_ from his instructors. Really.

“Well, if I wouldn’t trust them with a camera then I definitely wouldn’t trust them hacking at monsters,” Simon went on. “But if we want to head off would-be idiots with a yen for world domination, then our best bet is to make sure that anyone who does clear a dungeon has more magic-savvy opponents than just another Metal Vessel User. A lot more.” He stood, deliberately putting away visions of dark futures. “But forget idiots, and hatred, and wars that may never happen. Think about our students! This is the chance of a lifetime, Tiburon. For all of us. How many times have you told me of running up against limits; of knowing how to form the perfect kata in your head, yet your body just can’t move fast enough? How often have you watched your students try, and lose heart, because their blades have no purpose in this world save entertainment? How long have you wanted wonder, and watched it melt away into lost dreams? _This is real_.”

“And what will it cost us?” Tiburon asked quietly. “Dreams always cost, Simon. You know that better than any of us.”

Oh yes. Hollywood was dreams, and the darkest of nightmares. He’d left it behind for good reasons. “The cost?” Simon said plainly. “We’ll never be normal again. We’ll be playing the greatest shell game the world has ever seen, always claiming there’s only a pea to be found, and not a fiery dragon. Until, and unless, magic spreads far and wide enough that we can walk in the open.” He shrugged, arms folded and confident. “I’m not that attached to normal. Are you?”

_Whack_.

“Ow....” Simon wrinkled his nose at the baseball mitt Ja’far had somehow pulled out of a crack in the bleachers for a mighty thwack. “What was that for?”

“Fiery dragon?” Ja’far said in disbelief, still waving the mitt. “Will you _ever_ stop tempting Fate?”

“...Did I ever?”

Ja’far drew in a breath - and sighed. “When you did, it was never good,” he admitted. “You’re a better person when you don’t play it safe.”

“ _When_ he did?” Tiburon said pointedly. Looked between them, and blanched. “Wait. You say Ja’far knows us, when he’d never met Malachy before yesterday. And - no. No,” he said firmly. “It’s too crazy.”

“No,” Malachy said quietly. “It’s not.”

“But-!”

Simon raised an eyebrow at both of them.

Malachy’s mouth curled in a hint of a smile. “Alan asked if he believed in past life regression.”

“And I don’t!” Tiburon said stubbornly. “If one more person asks me if I’m an incarnation of the Carnahans or Nefertiri, I’ll find a way to inflict a perfectly natural insect plague. Honey and fire ants ought to do it. Past life regression-!”

Oof. “Lucky you,” Simon said dryly. “Ja’far’s clan made a rite of passage out of it-” Belatedly, he managed to rein in his mouth. “I’m sorry. I know that’s private.”

“No.” The ex-assassin looked at unbloodied hands. “No, I want them to know. Baal’s dungeon - it _wakes up_ old memories, being there. At least for people who’ve been in dungeons before. They need to know what they might be facing.” Gray eyes were haunted. “Memories can be the deepest scars of all.”

_I don’t know about that. Your clan left deeper ones_. Simon kept that thought to himself, though; Ja’far was prickly as a wet cat about sympathy. “Well. If you ever want to find people who will break your brain, Tiburon, head to a little-known forest on the edge of Chernobyl....”

* * *

_Compass, GPS, and map. You’d think one of them would agree with the others_.

Simon stared down at the offending items spread across the passenger seat of his borrowed Ukrainian jeep, and looked up again to eye the innocent-looking forest on the edge of Exclusion Zone. Conifers, hardwoods, underbrush; all looked perfectly healthy, unlike the deathly red-brown of the Red Forest unlucky enough to be directly downwind of the doomed reactors. That forest only existed in photographs now, bulldozed and buried to try and prevent some of its lethal load from leaking back into the ecosystem. This forest was alive, vibrant, and suspiciously healthy. To the point the wolf researchers his film group had been shadowing made odd harrumphs about fallout not dispersing evenly, and even quieter _you didn’t hear this from me_ comments on hidden Orthodox churches and miracles.

The really interesting thing about it was, it wasn’t on the map. The biologists knew where it was, and retreated here often when their four days in, three out shifts seemed to be a bit too long. They’d even - quietly - noted to the photography crew that if things really went bad and anyone got lost, here was where they should make for. It was safe. As safe as anywhere got near Chernobyl, at least.

And that had made Simon _curious_. Scientists, journalists, and crazy tourists all flocked to the Zone, bringing in cash the Ukrainian government desperately needed. He’d think a safe place to stay would be trumpeted far and wide, if only to support the claim that the disaster wasn’t as bad as environmental organizations had always declared it was. Only here - wasn’t. It wasn’t on the map, you couldn’t lock it down with GPS coordinates, and a compass brought near it would randomly drift in odd directions, only some of which included North. You couldn’t find this place unless you’d been here before.

And then there were the rumors of the _samosely_ , those who’d illegally settled inside the Zone. Not the usual old pensioners or desperate drifters who had nowhere to go. No; the few game wardens trying to keep Przewalski’s horses from being poached had muttered something about riders in the darkness, leaving nothing of a poacher’s camp but ashes and the smell of lightning....

Which would make an _awesome_ movie plot, Simon just knew it. People loved disaster movies and post-apocalyptic scenarios; why not create a modern twist? Horse-riding raiders of Chernobyl!

Granted, it’d probably go straight to video. But it was a plot that could work as a small independent film, perfect for the filming setup he dreamed of. Teaching people to film, to sketch out plot, to get the maximum use out of a location and stock footage; he had his own shots of everything here, he could _feel_ the potential-

There was a rustling in the leaves.

Camera over his shoulder, Simon got out to investigate. Because it _was_ relatively safe here, as long as you had everything well-washed afterward and didn’t do anything stupid like eating the local dirt. Stepping into the forest for a little while to get more local color wouldn’t hurt at all....

_Aww_.

Green maple leaves waved overhead, a perfect counterpoint to the brown-on-lighter-brown stripes of the fuzzy little squeaker rooting through last fall’s leaf-fall for nuts, worms, and who knew what.

Standing still and quiet, Simon zoomed in to catch the details, and cut out distracting motions from nearby oaks and beeches moving with the wind. Part of proper filmmaking was editing; you had to pick exactly which details would convey the impression your viewer needed-  

_Wait_ , Simon thought, breathing scents of crushed greenery and overturned leaves. _Wait, wait, wait - little squeakers like that don’t go off on their own. Which means where’s Mommy?_

_“Snnnort.”_

He didn’t look. Just jumped, before three hundred pounds of Angry Momma Boar could take his leg off at the knee.

_Bounce off that oak, grab that branch - oh hell, here comes the rest of the litter - beech won’t hold, it’s too whippy, use it to fling you up - how many are there? And Momma has sisters? Gah_ -

Riding trees like waves, he was up and into the high fork of the oak where the furry swarm of murder couldn’t reach-

...And seeing stars.

_Ow_.

Hands scrabbled, grabbing cloth instead of leaves; huh, that really had been a _clonk_ of his skull off someone else’s - that was a branch, that was grabby fingers, that was someone swearing in what sounded like some kind of archaic _really pissed off_ -

And they were falling. This was not good.

Rope whipped out with a whistling _thunk_ , and the pair of them yanked to a stop in mid-air. About three feet above slavering snouts.

“That?” Simon coughed, pressed up against a smaller, thinner form. “Was _awesome_. Can you show me-”

_“Snnnorrrrt.”_

“...We’re not high enough up, are we?”

“Stupid _tourists!_ ” His rescuer’s voice was younger. And accented. But the degree of homicidal mayhem in those words was unmistakable.

“I resemble that remark,” Simon mused, oddly delighted. “Cinematographer, actually. And always willing to listen to the local expert. What do we do now?” He narrowed his eyes. “If we swing, we could make it to that pine.”

“And dip in and out of reach? We should _wait_.” His rescuer’s snarl reminded Simon of a fur-puffed bobcat. “Like you could actually swing that far any-”

Simon grinned. _Challenge accepted_.

Head flung back, arm around the slighter man to pull his weight along with him, foot out to strike the ground in that moment rope and bough dipped enough to bring them down, and _push_ -

You couldn’t play Sinbad the Sailor if you couldn’t swing on ropes, after all.

_“You iiiiidiot!”_

Simon swung them both out and up, clearing the first net of pine needles with inches to spare. Letting go of the other man, he grabbed onto higher branches, pulling them both up and safe.

Back against rough, patchy bark, Simon breathed a sigh of relief. Snaked an arm out to latch onto his rescuer again, given the younger man was perched a little less securely on the branch leading outward. “Simon Cavins. Who are you?”

“You-!” His fellow tree-hugger whirled with surprising grace, as if Simon’s hold were light and breakable as cobwebs-

Gray eyes met his.

_Oh_.

Gray eyes in a thin, pale face; a few strands of dark hair escaping from under a hood patched in a dozen shades of green and brown. The young man didn’t look like the locals, even the local game wardens. Though he did look a little bit like some of the stories of local folklore; what you could _find_ of local folklore, after so many decades under Soviet rule. The dark hair, gray eyes, and many-colored hoods of the Sudini magicians....

Shaking his head in disbelief, the young man smacked him on the forehead.

Simon rubbed the sore spot, almost scowling. “What was _that_ for?”

“You’re _you_. You deserved it.” The hooded man hesitated. “I’m... Ja’far.”

_Of course you are_.

Which made no sense, but - the name fit him, and that was all there was to it. Simon relaxed against the tree, smiling. “It’s good to meet you-”

“Chernobyl,” Ja’far was almost growling, eyeing him like he had every intention of tying Simon up on the spot and dumping him back down for the sows as an early lunch. “Of all places... it doesn’t matter what life you’re in, you’re still a reckless, impulsive, risk-taking _idiot!_ ”

Ow. Although- “And you love me for it,” Simon dared.

“I... you....” Ja’far stared at him, caught wordless. “How do you know that?”

“I’m still alive.” Simon held out his hand.

“You’re here.” Ja’far’s hand gripped his, hot and a little sticky with broken pine needles. “You’re really here.”

Startled, Simon caught the young man against him, feeling the trembling of someone struck to the heart. _Who are you? Who do you think I am?_

_And why do I know, you belong right here?_

First things first. “Where is here, exactly?”

* * *

“Chernobyl?” Tiburon said in disbelief. “I thought you were Canadian!”

Ja’far slid a glance of evil mischief Simon’s way. “Accent coaching.”

Tiburon clapped a palm to his forehead. “Simon....”

“Well, of course I couldn’t tell you,” Simon exclaimed. “And give you problems with your security clearance?”

“What security clearance?” Tiburon said, almost innocently.

Simon smirked, amused. “Exactly.”

Green eyes narrowed at him. “You’re obviously not worried about that _now_.”

“We’re going to be hunting dragons,” Malachy said quietly. “Do you want to tell your associates the truth?”

Simon just waited. If Tiburon was poking at the lesser details, then he hadn’t quite nerved himself up enough to stab the gorilla in the living room-

Tiburon took a deep breath, and looked Ja’far straight in the eye. “What do you mean, _what life?_ ”

“Just what I said.” Ja’far’s voice was steady; Simon could only imagine how much strength that took. “I knew Simon, who Simon was, in a past life. I knew all of you in that life. And because of a spell my clan performs, I _remember_ most of that life. So I remember you. I’ve... wanted to tell you for years. But I didn’t think it was fair. You only know me from this life, after all. I-” He hesitated, and sighed. “I didn’t think it was _right_ , to ask you to be someone you weren’t anymore.”

Simon gripped his shoulder, proud and relieved. It’d taken him what seemed like forever to get Ja’far to admit his clan might have wronged him. Maybe the thirteen-year-old he’d been at the ceremony had given consent, but his _past_ life hadn’t asked to wake up as a time-lost assassin in the middle of a throng of very upset magicians.

The Magnos clan hadn’t harmed him physically, so far as Simon knew. But they’d been expecting someone like a scholar, and had gotten a lethal little half-civilized bundle of nerves instead. Even years later, when he’d first met the clan, one blur-quick move from Ja’far and he could _taste_ the tension in the air.

“But the minute we set foot in the dungeon, everyone started speaking the common tongue,” Ja’far went on. “I don’t know how Baal’s doing it, or if it’s only because all of us have been in dungeons before. But I thought you should know that the reason I’m not as disoriented as you are is... I’ve already been through something like this.”

_Ouch_.

“I’d really like to know how Baal’s doing it,” Ja’far reflected. “Not that I could probably do anything about it. Djinn magic against a magician’s is like dropping a mountain on a feather. But,” he hesitated. “I think I might know _why_.”

Simon leaned forward, all attention. He could see Tiburon’s eyes narrow, and Malachy drop into the stillness of awaiting action.

“Baal was the first Djinn Simon’s past life ever met,” Ja’far went on. “He liked Simon. And he was fairly fond of the rest of us, as well. And given a choice of kings, a Djinn will go with the one who calls their heart the most. So....” He gave Simon a wry glance. “He wouldn’t ever let a candidate _cheat_. But I don’t think anyone said he couldn’t stack the deck in your favor.”

Interesting. And something he definitely wanted to drag more details out of Ja’far on-

Except Tiburon was snickering, and that was something that should be encouraged. “Compass,” the swordsman got out. “You really did pull him out with a magnet!”

“I’ll magnetize _you_ ,” Ja’far grumbled. “A little bit of lightning magic, aimed the right way....”

“After the dungeon,” Malachy said firmly. Frowned. “We need to think about that. If we’re remembering different things, we’ll have a hard time predicting each other in a fight. That could be dangerous.”

Simon nodded. “So we should stick to the student levels for a time. At least until we have a better idea of what will and won’t come back to us.” He snapped his fingers. “Darn, and I was hoping to-”

“Tackle the dragon again?”

Simon jerked his gaze to the gym doors, hairs stirring on the back of his neck. How on earth had Alan managed to sneak up on them-

Ah. Morgan was the one who’d eased the door open, and the other two were still perched on Aladdin’s soundless flying turban. Excellent strategy.

Alan was shaking his head, even as Aladdin giggled. “ _Please_ tell me we’re going after something easier than the dragon this time.”

“Wait,” Tiburon said sternly. “You kids don’t need to-”

“Yes, we do,” Aladdin replied, face serious again. “I’m a magi. I’m supposed to help people in dungeons. And I’ve been away from the world long enough.”

“Not to mention, evil wizard, lethal martial artist,” Alan added. “It’s one thing for us to wander around town when you guys are just a phone call away. If you’re in another dimension? We’re kind of in trouble.”

“He can fight _and_ think,” Tiburon said, amazed. And gave Simon the most scarily gleeful grin he’d seen on the swordsman yet. “Simon. Is he a present?”

“Oy!” Alan was almost pink, dropping off the turban to hide behind Morgan. Which showed a certain amount of taste and good sense, Simon decided. Any approaching foe would have to get past Morgan’s kitten-eyes of cute, even before her lethal blows - and that would give Alan more than enough time to draw steel and start slicing.

Malachy noted the move, lips curling in slight amusement. “Homework done?”

“Yes,” Morgan nodded.

“Mostly?” Alan said sheepishly, when Malachy’s gaze turned on him. “I had all my classes switched, I’m still catching up!”

“Then we only go in for an hour,” Malachy decided. Glanced at Simon. “Morgan needs to give my sons a talking-to. Before school tomorrow.”

“Oh?” Simon asked, curious.

Malachy smirked.

...Oh, this was definitely going to be a story. Later. “An hour works,” Simon agreed. “Grab your gear, people. We’ve got a world to explore!”

* * *

“And in they go,” Callimachus breathed, studying the landing of the tower through binoculars as a starry surface rippled and pulled the seven in. “What _is_ that? It’s like no magic I’ve ever seen.”

“Interdimensional portal.”

He cast Phaenomena a look askance as she manhandled one of the foci into place amongst pines and stray mushrooms; close enough to this point of the plotted star to fall within the spell’s tolerances, yet using the terrain to still be unobtrusive. “Now you’re simply guessing.”

“What?” Dark eyes blinked at him, almost amused. “If I were going to make an interdimensional portal, I’d make it look _just_ like that.”

He crossed his arms, and gave her a _look_.

Taking advantage of her thick leather gloves, Phaenomena pulled a few dewberry brambles over the obsidian-hued disc to make it blend in better. Examined the leather for stray bits of bramble, plucked off a stickery leaf, then dusted off her hands and stood. “Fine. Logic, then. First, Magister? This wasn’t here when we faced off with the Fire-Mouse and the Red Lion. So unless you think someone built it with magic overnight-”

“Not possible, without a Djinn’s power,” Callimachus declared.

“Then someone built it _somewhere else_ , and moved it here.” She started pulling the gloves off, one finger at a time. “Second - you say the rukh has patterns around it like the place we found Ala’-adin-”

“ _Somewhat_ similar,” Callimachus said stiffly. That Place had been wondrous and beautiful, rukh golden and unearthly as the sun, and he’d been cast out of it. And he still didn’t know why.

“And we know that was partly linked to a somewhere-else,” Phaenomena went on, unfazed. “So it’d make sense if this was, too. And if it’s _linked_ to somewhere else, why couldn’t it come from there? And still go to there?”

“Hmm.” He shrugged, still darkly aware of how much his rancor made it hard to be logical about the situation. Phaenomena hadn’t searched for Solomon’s Wisdom for the past two centuries. Their failure didn’t grate on her nearly as much. Nor could she see the pure golden glow of the boy magician; a glow Cavins and his minions were starting to gain, and what right had any of them to that lost power?

“I could say third, they didn’t go through a physical door... but we both know about illusions,” Phaenomena reflected. “But you say the rukh swarm around Ala’-adin, right? What are they doing now?”

Callimachus squinted at the tower; physical lenses wouldn’t help here. “Some of them are dispersing,” he observed. “Others... swirling about. As if they’re waiting.”

“Which makes sense, if he went somewhere it’s not easy to follow,” Phaenomena said. “Only where in this world can rukh not follow anyone?”

Hmm. A valid point. “But the power that would take-”

“Is exactly the kind of power you’re searching for, Magister.” The martial artist looked down at the focus again, sweeping pine straw over it with the toe of one boot. “Though I have to wonder if this isn’t overkill, even so.”

“Your Fire-Mouse is a Fire Magic user, he’s companions with a Red Lion, and Ala’-adin himself is surprisingly dangerous unchained,” Callimachus stated. “A magician who can cast even the smallest combat spells without a wand.... Put that together with what we know about the staff of this school, and I suspect this is just _enough_ kill.”

“I still can’t believe the Vice-Principal _actually_ goes by Ja’far,” Phaenomena smirked. “I bet he’s heard every Disney joke ever made.”

“...I’m not entirely certain it’s a jest.”

A dark brow lifted. “Oh?”

“Though I would imagine he took the name to draw attention from the true sorcerer in the area,” Callimachus reflected.

“You don’t mean....”

Callimachus nodded, decisive. “The way he moves within the flow? Obviously the principal.”

His assistant drew a deep breath, and rubbed at her temples. “You know, I don’t remember any versions of the stories where Sinbad was a sorcerer. Well - except maybe the one on that archive with the gender-swapping and....” She trailed off, for once trying to look innocent.

Callimachus couldn’t quite contain a shudder. The internet might be a useful tool for research and gathering more information in a day than he could have in a year in Amsterdam’s busiest ports. It was also the oozing lair of things he wished he’d never known _existed_.

“Anyway,” Phaenomena coughed. “So. You think we just happened to run into his... apprentices, minions, what?”

“It’s not that unlikely.” Callimachus frowned. “Given Ala’-adin was connected to anyone bearing power in this world, the odds are good they’d have been found by a powerful magician. And anyone that powerful would be likely to attract others drawn to power... and ready to make use of unexpected opportunities.” He glared at the tower. The very presence of it implied all the power he’d been searching for so long, the way to correct a pale and pitiful shadow of magic to _what it should be_ -

And he was not - quite - insane enough to venture in there. Not without more information. And an _edge_.

_If this works, we will have both. And if it does not_.... He smirked. _Then at the very least, we will have removed one threat_.

Under pine needles, obsidian glinted blood-red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Yes, that is an AO3 mention. Because if Sinbad were a source of tall tales in this ‘verse, someone would do that in fanfic. I don’t even want to know what his fandom is like. And I’m terrified of the RPF fandom for Simon Cavins. My plotbunnies are too sane to go into details. However, they say Wingfic is definitely a Thing in that fandom, and Superpowers AUs are almost too easy, yet Omegaverse-style fics seem to self-destruct - sometimes melting down computers in the process. Bunnies think it’s very possible at least one fanfic site has put up a warning about the “Cavins RPF curse”.   
> ...This may or may not have anything to do with why Hancock High has plenty of students, evil paperwork or not.


	7. With Teachers Like These....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aladdin's first day of school. Regular Hancock students' first tower encounter. I'm not sure which is scarier....

_Kill the wab-bit-!_

_Thunk_.

_Oh god_. Alan opened his eyes a crack, blinking at the red numbers on the clock-radio. _Monday_.

The good news was, while Baal hadn’t spoken to them again, he’d apparently decided to honor Aladdin’s request. The glowing sweep of light had dumped them all at the _top_ of that scary beach, well out of range to set off the hungry predators in the water. After they’d poked around a bit, another shimmering door had appeared; it’d worked just fine to send them home. On top of that, thanks to Aladdin and Ja’far, he wasn’t sore. And thanks to _everyone_ ganging up on Simon when their principal wanted to try just one more corridor, he’d had time to get his homework done enough to pass muster.

The bad news was - well - Monday. Mondays were evil.

...And there was only one set of arms he’d had to wriggle free of to slap the alarm off, and that was just _not right_.

Alan smacked himself on the face to orient toward here-and-now, and looked at the blue braid half-buried under one of his pillows. _Three nights and I’m used to this?_

Somehow, that was even weirder than dragons.

_Okay. Up, caffeine, food_ -

A terrible, terrible foreboding hit him as Aladdin snoozed onward.

_...I have to get_ him _up. Oh boy_.

* * *

“-Horrible - _ice water_ \- dragged me-!”

Getting his notes in order for the day, Ja’far paused, and checked the clock. It was still well before most students would even straggle into school for the morning, but that was definitely Aladdin’s voice.

_Then again, that’s what I’d do_ , the ex-assassin thought, tapping his folders into a neat pile. _Get here early, they have enough time to dodge trouble and keep civilians out of the line of fire_. His was an evil grin. _And given I remember Yamraiha’s rants about how much water it took to get Aladdin up... I imagine Alan_ tried _to get here even earlier_.

“-He was _awful!_ ” Aladdin was still protesting to an unimpressed Morgan, as the three of them swarmed into the room, automatically glancing over it for enemies, potential allies, and exits.

_Windows, closet_ , Ja’far saw them note, _and - ceiling?_ He considered that, in light of the trio’s capabilities; one magi, one Fanalis, and one very stubborn young swordsman with a few extra edges. _Oh yes. That would work_.

“He picked me up by my _braid_ , and said the coffee was downstairs, _and_ the food, and we couldn’t even eat in bed-”

“You’d have gone right back to sleep,” Alan said pointedly.

“Well, yeah....”

“Then he tried to become one with the covers,” Alan informed Morgan. “It was impressive. Like trying to untangle a snake from a grapevine.”

“And then he brought _ice!_ ” Aladdin’s shudder was equal proportions surprise and aghast dismay. “How could anyone do that?”

“By opening the freezer?” Morgan’s eyes crinkled in a subtle smile. “I’ve had to get my cousins up, too.”

“Not you too!” Aladdin heaved a sigh. “How’s anybody supposed to get _sleep?_ ”

“Go to bed early,” Alan answered, swinging his backpack off his shoulders to reach in and dig out a stapled pile of papers in a plastic binder insert. Squaring his shoulders, he headed for Ja’far’s desk. “Mr. Jafar? I thought this might help.”

“Ah. FAA regulations on local structures.” Ja’far nodded, accepting the pile. “I gave one to Simon already, but it would be a good idea to have one for Baal. I don’t know if he can do anything about the outside of the dungeon... or read English, much less bureaucratese.... but it’s only polite to tell him if we have to put a light up there. If only to keep whoever has to run the wires from getting shocked by a cranky Djinn.”

“Oh.” Alan’s shoulders didn’t - quite - slump. “I guess you already thought of that.”

“I ran most of Sindria’s bureaucracy for years,” Ja’far stated. “One school isn’t that big a deal. Which is good, since I don’t have nearly as much help corralling Simon as I used to.” Though Baal’s dungeon would help. Sort of. Simon loved to be _busy_. Especially when part of that business was both teaching _and_ showing off. Oh god, the poor students....

He eyed Aladdin, currently sitting in a desk in front of Morgan and fidgeting in clothes a size too big. At least the sleeves were long enough to hide Aladdin’s wand. “Stay after school, so we can get him his own uniform.” _And so I can talk to him about spellwork. The protections I’ve put on Simon are good, but they’re_ mine; _they’ll warn me if something does go for Simon’s mind, but I don’t have nearly enough power in them to hold against anything like David. If I’ve got a magi to work with I am_ going _to use that_. “I’m surprised he even wore it.”

“It’s not the clothes that are tricky. It’s the sandals.” Alan looked like he might have said more, if he hadn’t noticed someone else coming down the hall. A sigh, and he headed for the empty desk in front of Aladdin.

_They have him against the right wall so no one can jar his writing without working at it, and buffered between them_ , Ja’far reflected. _To protect him, or the rest of the class?_

At the moment it didn’t matter much; Hancock High could demand, and keep, stricter discipline standards than the average high school, and Simon had a way of dealing with truly incorrigible troublemakers that left them desperate to go anywhere else. But Ja’far had to admit he’d never seen Aladdin penned in with a bunch of fellow teenagers who _weren’t_ worrying about saving the world.

_Mix one magi with ordinary teenagers, wait for explosion_ , Ja’far thought uneasily, as more of his homeroom students started filing in. _This would be tricky even if there weren’t an enemy alchemist out there... eh?_

Odd. His regular students were eying Alan, not Aladdin. Now why would-?

_Oh_. Ja’far resisted the urge to sigh heavily, especially when the young football players he’d had dumped on him made sure they got desks close enough to stare. He really had spent too much time in the dungeon this weekend. When it came to ordinary teenage attention spans, a student carrying an _actual sword_ beat out a long braid of blue hair, any day.

From the way Alan seemed to want to crawl under his desk, he’d noticed that too.

_Get them too busy to think_. “Roll call,” Ja’far said briskly, over the normal hubbub of teenagers doing last-minute homework checks, phone calls, and note-tossing before school actually got started. “Abbate, Dan.” Alphabetical order was convenient this year; it let him rein in Dan “Dash” Abbate before the football freshman could tear off on yet another mental tangent of how to stomp opposing teams.

“Um....” The burly player tore his gaze off Alan’s steel, and waved half-heartedly. “Here!”

_Well, mostly_ , Ja’far reflected. _Can’t I stab them just a little bit_.... He worked his way down the list, watching all but three of his students start at “Cavins, Aladdin.”

Morgan nudged the magi’s desk.

“Oh. Um, here!” Aladdin smiled at the room, still half-absorbed in taking in all the modern details of plastic, steel, and chalkboards.

_You two are going to have your work cut out for you_ , Ja’far reflected. Then again, Aladdin had survived Magnostadt, so theoretically he knew how to get by in a formal school. Maybe. _Two tardies, no absences. Now, how do I break it to them the schedule’s going to change a bit_ -

A bell-tone sounded over the school intercom. “Testing, testing....”

As if Simon didn’t know the system inside-out and forwards, to the point he could probably rewire it in the dark, in a thunderstorm, with his hands tied behind his back. Ja’far eyed the speaker with deep distrust.

“As any of you who managed to stumble in here awake have probably noticed, our tennis courts have gone to that great playing field in the sky,” Simon said briskly. “Good riddance.”

One of the girls in the back yipped in dismay; Jennie Mays, badminton player, if he recalled her record right. Ja’far gave her a weak smile.

“You’ve probably also noticed the massive salute to ancient history that wrecked them,” Simon went on. “I’m going to say this once: That tower is dangerous. _Forbidden Forest_ levels of dangerous.” He chuckled ominously. “And we all know how telling people to stay out of that worked, don’t we?”

Morgan had a quiet smile. Aladdin was watching the speaker with interest. And Alan was watching his fellow students, who’d quieted down from either rare common sense or shock, Ja’far wasn’t sure which.

“So!” Simon charged gleefully on. “You will be _required_ to go in there, in teams, during your gym period. At least once. Besides, my teachers totaled the gym yesterday. This is much cooler. And free.”

_We didn’t_ \- Ja’far remembered some of the stunts he’d pulled yesterday sparring with Tiburon and Malachy, and tried very hard not to blush.

Dash seemed to be muttering _totaled the gym_ in a stunned daze. Alan had a fist to his lips, ears turning red with the effort of not laughing.

“Cameras are not only allowed, they are encouraged!” Simon declared. “Do not walk off the cliffs backwards taking your pictures, that is _very_ uncool.”

Ja’far snorted. _Voice of experience_.

One of his new bio students looked up from her dragonfly identification book, eyes wide behind her glasses. “There aren’t any cliffs in Florida!”

Poor Michaela. How little she knew.

“I strongly recommend assigning someone to be your group’s cameraman,” Simon continued. “Note that protecting your cameraman will encourage him - or her, equal opportunity for the lovely ladies here! - to take more flattering shots.”

“Protecting?” someone in the back muttered.

Morgan smiled, teeth white and sharp.

“Note that screaming and running is always an option.” For a moment, Simon sounded purely serious. “Also note that you may _not_ take one of the wyverns home. No. This is not a pet store.”

Now Ja’far was trying not to snicker. Djinni weren’t _pets_ , exactly....

“This is probably insanely dangerous and quite possibly illegal. Needless to say, I will not be getting permission slips from your parents,” Simon mused. “Who needs that aggravation?”

Half the class’ mouths were open in shock. Alan had buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with helpless laughter.

“And in case you think I can’t, read the eeeeevil fine print involved in signing up to go here in the first place,” Simon gloated. “Ja’far is incredibly good at fine print, I love him for it. Among many other talents, including ones with knives, which I suspect some of you are going to have to learn _very quickly_. In short? I can put you through whatever instruction I see fit so long as you’re still on school grounds. And the tower is. So there.”

“So when’s gym?” Aladdin whispered; totally audible, in the stunned silence.

“Later,” Morgan said firmly. “Be patient.”

“Weapons will be available at what’s left of the gym!” Simon announced. “Those of you who have your own, bring them, you’re going to need them. Good luck, and let’s hope everyone survives until Tuesday!”

* * *

This school? Was not like Magnostadt’s Academy. At _all_.

Aladdin let Alan break their path through the crowded halls as they wove from class to class through the day. Everyone here was older than he was, and almost everyone was a little taller. Not to mention the rumors about “Principal Cavins’ relative” had apparently morphed from distant relative to cousin from a lost South American plateau to possible son by an alien abductee. Which was kind of funny, given he _was_ from another world.

“Deny everything,” had been Alan’s murmured advice. “They’ll believe whatever matches up with the crazy in their heads anyway.”

“Just smile at them, and be yourself,” Morgan had advised in passing. “They’re not bad people. Just... not used to our world.”

He wasn’t used to theirs, either. Weird letters instead of numbers in math, angles and degrees and stuff... he knew _some_ of this from Ugo and Yamraiha, but he was having to lean a lot on Alan’s rukh just to follow and take notes, and that - well, he kind of got what Alan meant by _not wanting to cheat_.

Also English was apparently not just a language but a literature study, History was a confusing mess of countries and years and a whole world map that looked different, and Spanish was just annoying even if Alan _did_ know it. Especially since the teacher was speaking something Alan called Castilian Spanish, and Alan knew _Guatemalan_ Spanish, and the teacher’s rant on _voseo_ when Alan had slipped and said _No quiero que mintás_ had rung in his ears for half an hour.

...Not to mention spinning hands on a circle like a hybrid compass to tell time was just _weird_.

At least everyone being in blue and white uniforms wasn’t so bad; you knew everybody here was working toward the same goal. Or, well, kind of. Morgan and Alan walked like the people he remembered; maybe young, maybe they didn’t know everything yet - but they _knew_ they didn’t know it, and they had goals anyway, so they’d just walk carefully and keep going. The rest of these kids? Not so much.

_Kids_ , Aladdin thought, frowning a little. _Aum Madaura would roll right over them with her fan, and they’d never even fight_.

That just by itself was a good reason to help Simon. Because it was _good_ that these kids had never really had to fight for their lives, it really was... yet it was scary too, because bad people were still out there, and what were kids going to do if they hadn’t made that decision to look after themselves?

_If these are normal kids, why are Alan and Morgan different?_

He was kind of guiltily glad they were. If they’d been anything like the teenagers swarming through halls and banging open the metal cabinets Alan called _lockers_ , he would feel so lonely.

_Whatever happened to them before now isn’t my fault_ , Aladdin told himself firmly. _The Rukh does what it’s going to do, and I was_ asleep. _I can help them be happy now. That’s what’s important_.

And Alan _was_ happy, under the wariness and worry. Aladdin could see that in the way gold eyes moved over every girl in blue and white with honest appreciation of _oo, pretty_....

But it never went deeper than that look and smile, because they weren’t Morgan. When he caught a glimpse of her, or traded looks at notes, or managed to brush by her - _then_ Alan blushed.

Aladdin grinned, rubbing his wand with his fingers. The two of them together, no Kou Empire cluttering up things with arranged marriage offers or Balbadd under threat, and Morgan’s guardians already approved?

_This is going to be fun to watch_.

Having to wear shoes still sucked, though-

Alan paused just outside Ja’far’s doorway. There were at least five other students gathered outside; one of them Michaela, white-faced and a blink from tears. “Do you smell smoke?”

“And lightning,” Aladdin nodded, dropping his wand out of his sleeve enough to grab it as Alan reached for his sword. Whatever was going on in their Biology class, they’d face it together.

Left hand on the metal doorknob, Alan turned it silently, then yanked.

Smoke was rising from a charred mass on Ja’far’s desk. It was hard to tell from the overall soot, but Aladdin thought it’d been shaped like a stuffed toy bird, bits of it still red and blue and yellow.

Alan eyed the mess a bit longer, then lifted his gaze to the slightly red-faced magician standing two feet away, a spark still flickering around his fingers. “What’d the parrot ever do to you?”

Ja’far stared at his hand, and shook the spark out. “...The one good thing about Chernobyl was _never hearing about Disney_.”

* * *

Standing guard over the weapons he was going to be handing to hapless students, Tiburon stared at the crew of workers tearing up shattered floorboards, taking apart smashed bleachers, and generally raising dust in what was left of Simon’s gym. “...Did we do that?”

A leather and denim mountain beside him, Malachy nodded.

Tiburon winced, all but feeling Simon’s snickers dance across his neck. _“How did we not notice?”_

Malachy grinned.

* * *

“What I want to know is, where are the news crews?”

Peering through binoculars at the score of students grouping up in front of the tower, Callimachus felt the van roof under him shift a bit. A glance to his side confirmed that Phaenomena had scooted closer to him, hands on white-painted steel and dark eyes intent on their targets. “It’s to our advantage that we have nothing of the kind nearby,” he said bluntly. “No doubt any other practicing sorcerer would likewise take precautions to guide public eyes away from the paranatural in their domain.”

“That’s where I keep running into a problem, Magister,” the martial artist said thoughtfully. “Everyone who works with magic stays out of the public eye. It’s the only way to survive. But Cavins is an _actor_.”

“So he is,” Callimachus observed. “And possibly, a better actor than Hollywood ever imagined.”

“Hmm. He could be.” From the corner of his eye, he caught her frown. “At least, I hope the thing about the peacock was an act.”

That sounded oddly ominous. “...What thing about the peacock?”

Phaenomena coughed into her fist. “You don’t want to know.”

“And they let this man near children?” Callimachus shuddered. “We will be doing the world a _favor_.”

“Right.” Phaenomena took out her remote control. “One flare ready to go off in five, four-”

“Wait.”

There. Their three targets, in amongst the other students. The whole group appeared to be led by Ja’far, who was - heading up the tower steps?

“Wait,” Callimachus murmured again, watching students cradling weapons and video cameras as if they were equally dangerous. “This promises to be interesting.”

* * *

“Did you hear Coach Grant won’t go in there?”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah; I hear Principal Cavins called some big teachers’ meeting this morning, and Coach and Mr. Stafford are hiding in the breakroom. And they won’t come out! Someone said they might quit!”

“Mr. _Stafford?_ Who’s going to teach physics?”

“Ah, you know how it is. They’ll get some idiot sub....”

Morgan listened to her gym class chatter and whisper, face expressionless. Uncle Malachy had said Simon meant to bring the teachers in first before letting them loose with groups of unsuspecting students. Apparently that hadn’t gone as well as he’d hoped.

From the expression on Ja’far’s face as he led them up to the landing, the magician was not surprised.

_Twenty of us. I wonder how many will scream and run?_

She was looking forward to catching them. Especially the football players.

_No more hiding. Not in that world_.

Aladdin paced her up the steps, calm and relaxed; he already had his wand out and tucked into his belt, feet bare under rolled-up jeans. Alan was dressed much the same, except for sneakers. Morgan approved; in no way were gym shorts tough enough to stand up to what they’d be bouncing off of in there. The rest of the students - well, given everyone knew anyone might be pressed into service as an impromptu extra in a pinch, it was standard practice to keep a set of casual clothes on hand.

Morgan allowed herself a tiny smirk. _I bet the high heels are the first to go_.

Alan followed her gaze, and frowned. “Mr. Ja’far? Hang on a minute.”

“What is- oh.” Ja’far frowned at the bespectacled girl in question. “Miss Michaela, those won’t work. You could break an ankle.”

Blue eyes widened behind glass. “But....”

“Just leave them here,” Aladdin advised. “The sand’s not bad.”

_For someone who goes everywhere barefoot_ , Morgan noted to herself.

“Seriously, the first step is a doozy,” Alan said wryly. “Next time, sneakers would be good.”

_But sneakers don’t impress the teacher you have a crush on_. Morgan rolled her eyes. _Why are you even bothering, a bundle of nerves like that will never_ -

“The principal made it sound worse than it is.” Alan shrugged, and waved toward the tower. “Just keep your eyes open and you’ll be fine.”

“You’ve been in there?” Dash demanded, the blond football player bunching his muscles in what he probably thought was an impressive way.

“He has, Mr. Abbate,” Ja’far intervened. “As have Miss Morgan and Mr. Cavins. Which is why if something goes drastically wrong in there, you will get behind one of those three _and stay there_.”

“But why-”

_“This is not a request.”_

Ja’far had a faint smile on his face. Morgan felt a chill down her spine.

“What we have here, ladies and gentlemen, is an entryway to danger beyond your wildest dreams,” Ja’far went on. “Principal Cavins believes every one of you should get the chance to visit it once, possibly in hopes that none of you will be utterly, profoundly, _lethally_ stupid, and visit it without backup. Make no mistake: anyone who goes in there alone _will die_.” He paused. “He also hopes that some of you will find that you can handle what’s on the other side, and learn to thrive in it. So far that hasn’t gone well with most of the teachers. So Principal Cavins, Instructors Tiburon and MacLea, and I will all be switching off taking people through. We’re going to have a busy week. Though I expect that will taper off soon, as we sort out who can - and _can’t_ \- handle what’s in there.”

“So what’s the big deal?” Dash demanded. “It’s just a building, right?”

“This,” Ja’far said, still utterly calm, “is a dungeon.” One pale hand waved up at soaring white and ruby stone. “Inside are riddles that will test you, traps that will try to kill you, and monsters that will try to kill and _eat_ you. We’re not going to go very far inside, not this time; but things can go wrong, and if you stray the dungeon monsters will attack you. And you’ll have to fight. The four of us will do our best to get you out of lethal danger, but you will have to stay alive until we get there.”

That got pale faces, and a rising babble an inch from panic-

_“Quiet.”_

Silence. Even Morgan couldn’t look away from gray eyes.

“Listen to me.” The magician swept his gaze over the class. “You learn to walk a tightrope by starting with the rope only a few feet above the ground. That is exactly what we’re doing here. You will face a very dangerous situation, but so long as you listen, and follow the ground rules, _you will not die_.”

Morgan glanced at her classmates again. She could already hear knees knocking together.

“Principal Cavins believes you deserve this chance,” Ja’far said levelly. “I’m not so sure. But then, I was raised with danger. I may be underestimating you.” Another slow sweep of a gray gaze. “Prove me wrong.”

To her left, Morgan heard Michaela whimper.

“Ground rules, then,” Ja’far stated, producing a diagram of the beach entryway. “First, this is where we’re going. If all else fails, make your way back to that door and go through. Second,” a knife gleamed between his fingers, “I am in charge. And if you do not listen to me you _will_ get hurt.”

Dash’s eyes bugged. “That- that’s-!”

“Third,” Ja’far continued, not even bothering to give him a quelling look, “in case you didn’t notice, Instructor Tiburon gave you _live weapons_. Those edges are real. They have to be. Now let me show you how to grip them without killing yourselves. Or anyone else....”

* * *

The jump would have been just as much fun as the last time, if it hadn’t been for the screaming.

Not that all of it was bad screaming, Aladdin thought, as they hung in the endless starry black before the light that was Baal’s gate swept them away. Some of that screaming was thrill, some was awe, and at least one person was yipping, “Planet! _Eeee!_ ”

They hit the sand, screams cut off with the _oomphs_ of lost breath.

“That was a planet!” Michaela sat up on the sand, skirt slightly tangled, hanging onto her glasses with one hand. “That was another planet, the continents were all wrong - was that a wormhole? Where _are_ we?”

_Huh. That’s interesting_ , Aladdin thought. The rukh wasn’t pushing people to speak the common tongue right now. So had that been Baal’s influence, poking at the people around the one he wanted as king? Or just the rukh not being as pushy with people who weren’t as linked to the old world?

“Welcome to Alma Torran.” Ja’far was already on his feet, dark hair brushed back out of his way. “And you are partly correct, Miss Michaela. The door we stepped through is not an interstellar transport, we can’t choose the settings on it, and it only goes one place. But this is another world.”

The students were gaping at their teacher. Aladdin got up and brushed himself off, a little worried. Nobody was screaming anymore. But that didn’t mean they weren’t afraid-

“Our teacher’s an alien?” Dash’s burlier friend Brett Kwan blurted out. “Dude!”

“...What?” Ja’far got out.

“Oh, you walked right into that one,” Alan chuckled.

Dash’s eyes were wide enough to see the whites. “Man, that explains _so much_.”

“What?” Ja’far repeated, incredulous.

Morgan stifled a tiny snicker.

Aladdin blew out a breath. If this kept up, things wouldn’t go like Simon wanted at all. “You’re wrong. This place - the gate of the world, the dungeon, all of it - was built by humans.”

...Well, their descendants were human _now_ , so that counted, right?

“They just knew things we don’t, anymore,” Aladdin went on. “So Uncle Simon wants to see what we can all find out. We can learn things here.” He grinned. “And do a lot of filming.”

There were a lot of wide eyes, exchanging glances. “Um....” Michaela gulped. “Mr. Ja’far? If... if this is someplace that should be _studied_ , shouldn’t there be scientists...?”

“You may have heard about Mr. Stafford,” Ja’far stated. “Officially it is school policy not to allow intoxicating beverages on school grounds. Unofficially, I think he may be in the process of getting very drunk.”

Oof. Yeah, Aladdin could kind of see that. Alma Torran was just so _different_ from Earth. Worse than being dropped straight from Sindria into Magnostadt. At least people in both those places knew about magic and monsters.

“Practically speaking, I want you to think about what will happen if anyone official - especially someone scientific - comes here.” Ja’far’s gaze moved over them all, checking to be sure no one had strayed out of the safe zone of the beach, despite the tempting rush of waves below. “We’ll lose our school.”

Aladdin saw Morgan pale, and gulped himself. If kids his age had to go to school or risk standing out - well, that wouldn’t be good. At all. He was a _magi_. And he knew Simon would bluff, distract, and otherwise keep an utterly straight face if anyone suggested he’d just done something impossible. Other people? Probably not.

“If the government knows about this place, Miss Michaela, they’ll probably do exactly what you suggest: cordon it off, kick us out, and send in scientists with armed guards,” Ja’far said bluntly. “And then those scientists _wouldn’t come back_. So they’d send in more. And more. Until they’ve dumped whole armies down the dungeons, and they’re so sure it has to be worth it that someone will suggest bombing the place rather than let anyone have it. And I don’t think bombing it would _work_. We’d lose our school, our homes, our city. And for what? A few experts who think they know best? The scientific method belongs to everyone. Why should we call in _other_ scientists? We can do this.”

“Um.” Brett was looking at Dash. “Mr. Ja’far, we’re not....”

“You’re Hancock High students,” Ja’far cut him off. “Each of you has a reason for being here. Your parents, your dreams of the movies, your own ideas for adapting what Simon can teach you about showmanship to the rest of the world. You’re here for something special.” He gestured at rocks, and waves, and the leather-winged creatures flying almost out of sight overhead. “ _This_ is special. Do you want to lose it without even trying to find out what it could be?”

Almost, Aladdin thought. He _almost_ had them, there was just something more he needed to say, something that would tip the balance from scared to _wanting_....

Alan’s hand brushed his shoulder. “Your call,” his friend murmured, low and quiet. “I wouldn’t say anything about magi. _Magician_ \- that’s up to you.”

_Oh_. Aladdin drew in a startled breath. _Oh, that’s right, they don’t know!_

Decided, he drew his wand. _“Halharl Infigare!”_

A fireball bloomed above the wooden tip, reflecting gold and ruby in startled eyes. There was a mass scramble of people to their feet; some shrinking back, others frozen in place as if they weren’t sure to flee or pounce.

“I know what this looks like,” Aladdin said above the crackle of flames, feeling the joy as he finally, _finally_ got to cut loose with a little magic again. Feeling the rukh sing as it brushed over _potential_ in a score of young forms. “It looks impossible. It looks as crazy as Uncle Simon. But some of you can learn to do this. I know you can!” He twisted the fireball into a helix, then a shimmering ring of flames above their heads. “And any of you who can’t - there are other tricks you can learn, that everybody thinks are just stories. Moving quiet as the wind. Sensing people when you can’t see them. Knowing what move to make in a fight. _You can do this_.” He twitched his wand, and the flames went out. “Believe it.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Alan said into the ringing silence, “let me introduce you to _sufficiently advanced technology_.”

* * *

Baal sat cross-legged on air, watching a shimmer of lightning that relayed images of any disturbance in his realm. Right now there was little to see, besides a group of teenagers tentatively trying not to kill each other in the safe area on his beach.

_Hmm. Well, at least they’re more wary than those teachers Simon brought before_.

Most of those humans had been a complete and utter waste of time. The screaming, Baal could deal with; even the best warriors might panic when confronted with the unknown. But the inability of some of them to work past that panic and _think_ , even when Simon had told them he meant to bring their young charges here....

_They have no business teaching those who would challenge me_. Baal frowned, just a slight crease of scales. _Even young ones who only seek to find out if they_ would _challenge me. Courage in the face of danger is something that must be_ learned. _How can the young ones learn it from those who will not face me themselves?_

And they had so _much_ to learn. Balance, fighting skills, endurance, caution; he could see it lacking in all of them. Even the young Magi’s chosen King.

Though from the amount of magoi Amon appeared to be storing, his fellow Djinn had his own plans to deal with that.

_So far, Ugo’s plan has worked well. Even with Aladdin’s... amendments_.

It wouldn’t have worked if they’d all been locked into their dungeons on Alma Torran during Aladdin’s long sleep. But they’d been together in the new Sanctuary, with the Djinn who had been one of the most brilliant human magicians ever born. They’d had centuries to test and refine various enchantments to lay on their dungeons this time. Especially those related to what both Djinn and dungeon could do if they found a particular visitor utterly unsuited to be a king.

_Parthevia lost ten thousand men trying to take me_ , Baal recalled. _For those who chose the risk - their life, or death, was in their own hands. But drafted soldiers ordered in, on pain of their families’ deaths? I lost too many of my own kin. I would prefer not to force that pain on another_.

Which was half the reason he had allowed his creatures to bring him the treatise on Earth’s local building regulations. It was well within a dungeon’s limits to have the creatures in it steal items of use to the hapless challengers and leave them in the treasure room. And it wasn’t as if Ja’far were trying to skirt the rules and speak to him _directly_ , without facing him in a full challenge. No; Sinbad’s deadly little General was simply providing him with information to improve the quality of his would-be challengers. So long as his dungeon did not draw the eyes of those in power, any would-be kings would first have to be clever enough to realize the tower didn’t quite _fit_ the world they knew.

Not to mention, he’d rather enjoyed Alibaba’s trenchant commentary on current governments, the headaches of dealing with a bureaucracy that put the Kou Empire to shame, and blinky lights. It was worth setting some lightning to dance at the spire’s tip, if that would allow their plans to move forward unhindered; and it’d been easy enough to accomplish.

Though Baal did wonder what his fellow Djinn thought of his recent addition to those plans. Allowing magoi loose in the world slowly and gradually, so the inhabitants could adjust, was all well and good. But he’d had Sinbad, three of Sinbad’s Generals, their missing magi _and_ his fate-bound companions all within his reach. There was no way in the universe a Djinn who had been named the spirit of Wrath and Heroes meant to let that chance slip by. Especially given the _wrath_ part.

_Callimachus is still out there_.

He’d sensed the alchemist’s presence disturbing the rukh outside his Earthly doorway. No more than that; he wasn’t Zagan, to allow dungeon creatures to drag mere passersby into his domain. He could be patient. He could _wait_.

...And he could likewise borrow a few ideas from his fellows to make certain Aladdin’s allies would be strong enough to crush that arrant knave, if Callimachus attacked again. Amon certainly didn’t seem to mind. Not that he could ask Amon directly, or even through the messenger spirits or transported creatures Alma Torran’s recovering ecology had let him send to other dungeons. But the Djinn of Austerity and Decorum would have acted, had he truly objected to another strengthening his king.

_I wonder if the others will adopt similar methods?_ Baal frowned, remembering that last glimpse of Ugo before he’d landed back in his dungeon. Their leader had been wounded, sorely wounded; and though Ugo had assured them he would be well in time....

Well. If Callimachus did cross paths with Aladdin again, Baal meant for his next experience to be... _educational_.

* * *

_“Eeeek!”_

Flailing with her spear, Michaela managed to hack the rabbit-sized lightning-crab going after her toes into three separate pieces. She backed further up the beach, and grounded the haft, still shaking. “That’s - that was-”

“Edible,” Morgan declared after a cautious sniff, grabbing one of the plastic bags Ja’far had brought in their general supplies to scoop up the juicy pieces. The boys were watching over a few other students who’d dared approach the wet rocks the same way she was looking after Michaela, while Ja’far rode herd on those who weren’t sure they had the nerve yet. “We should take it with us.”

Blue eyes were wide behind sea-spattered glass. “You want to eat it?”

Morgan blinked, and nodded. It was Michaela’s kill, after all. “We eat half, you dissect the other half?”

“...Um.” The biology student glanced aside. “I... thought you didn’t like me.”

“I don’t hate you,” Morgan stated, not as surprised as she wished she was. She might try for Uncle Malachy’s cool face, but she didn’t always manage it. “I just didn’t know if you could calm down enough to take care of yourself.”

“Calm?” Michaela gripped her spear, white-knuckled. “Who could be calm when something’s trying to _eat you?_ ”

“Not me!” Alan’s voice carried over the surf, as he hauled one of their camera-guys back toward the bandages. “Heck, I’m scared every time I come in here.”

Michaela gingerly accepted her bag, and headed back toward the others with trembling relief. “You’re scared? You don’t look scared!”

Morgan gave Alan her own skeptical look. “Scared people don’t fight.”

“There’s a difference between scared and _panicked_ ,” Alan said wryly. “Easy, Ty; it’s just a scrape, wash it off and put some cream on.” He left the boy to that and his mutterings over the scratches on his camera. “I get scared pretty easily. I just keep telling myself it’s scarier _not_ to fight.” He gave Michaela a confident wink. “We’ll get through this _because_ we’re scared. That means we’re paying attention!”

_He’s scared?_ Morgan chewed on that incongruous thought as Michaela flopped down into the safe zone by Aladdin and hesitantly accepted a rag to clean off her spear. _Why is he scared? The four of us can handle anything this high in the dungeon. It would be a playground, if we didn’t have to look after a bunch of scared kids_....

She followed Alan’s gaze as he glanced at every one of their classmates, silently checking nerves, exhaustion, and how close any individual teen might be to curling up in a ball and whimpering.

_Like Uncle Malachy, checking a beginner class_ , Morgan realized, as Alan got back on his feet and made rounds. Mouse-quiet, he nudged Aladdin’s attention toward some of the shakier students, and caught Ja’far’s glance to nod toward Dash before the football player could do more than think of charging the surf. “You’re scared for them.”

“Sure.” Alan’s glance at her said _how could anyone not be?_ “You were there when I freaked out about Phaenomena. What they’re facing in here isn’t people, but that doesn’t make it easy.”

Morgan frowned. It still didn’t make sense. Why was he this worried about other students-?

_Ja’far told them to get behind us_.

He might not have spelled it out, but Ja’far had made them assistant instructors, just as she would be in a MacLea class. And while Aladdin could throw up a Borg between them and trouble and she could haul any idiot out of gaping maws with her own two hands - Alan couldn’t.

_He has to see trouble_ before _it happens_.

She’d been worried about the dungeon creatures and the environment. Alan was worrying about all that, and how wound up their classmates were, and how fearless some of the idiots were, _and_ how to keep breaking up knots of panic or idiocy _before anything happened_.

_Oh_.

Which was a crazy level of being responsible. This was a dungeon, Ja’far and Aladdin had told them enough for Morgan to know it was hard enough just to look after yourself. But Alan had just picked it up and kept going.

_Well, he’s not doing it alone_. “Michaela?” Morgan headed her way, and crouched by the bag. “You know biology. Do you want to help me show people where a crab’s weak points are?”

* * *

“Damned chit-chattering limp-wristed _morons_ who couldn’t survive a night in the back country if you gave them matches and a knife-!”

Tiburon pushed out one of the school’s back doors into warm autumn air, stalking away from Simon’s gaggle of teachers before he did something _perfectly reasonable_. The other teachers would scream, Simon would sigh about having to replace the carpet, and Malachy would look disappointed.

Honestly, that last one was what was keeping his temper in check. When the man who could bend steel bars barehanded thought it was better to be polite and professional than take a few idiots out of the gene pool, what could Tiburon do but try to play nice?

_We’re sending children into a deathtrap, and I’m not with them_.

Tiburon sighed, staring up at Baal’s tower, glimmering multicolored ball of plasma and all. Yes, it was apparently now a _survivable_ deathtrap. And yes, they were going to need to take this in shifts until they’d properly terrified everyone into realizing that to enter the tower was to risk your life. After they’d sorted out who might be able to push farther in from those who should _never_ go in there again... then they could make a better schedule of dungeon runs.

_And you’ll get to fight to your heart’s content_ , Tiburon told himself bleakly. _Fight, and kill. That’s what you want, isn’t it?_

No. No, he knew himself better than that. He’d seen men who turned kill-hungry and cold; soldiers, spies, those who had no names because they officially weren’t there. He’d taught some of them. And some-

_This is a school. I don’t want to remember that here_.

The dead and lost were gone. The living were what was important. He was _not_ a danger to these children; Simon would fold, spindle, and mutilate him first. He didn’t really want to kill, and he certainly didn’t want to kill people. He just-

_I want to_ fight.

All out. No holds barred. Knowing he was alive because of his skill with a blade, steel singing in his grip like a deadly banshee. It ached at him, like the taste of cool water in a blazing desert.

_I want to be alive_.

Simon had been right, damn him; so very right. Tiburon loved bladework, and yet he hated what it did to so many of his students. The ones who learned to use knives might put their skills to a valiant purpose, but it was all too often a dark and shadowed one. Those who learned swords... outside of martial arts demonstrations, re-enactors, and the movies, their hard-earned skills had no place in this world. Carrying a gun was ill-thought of enough, in all too many places. Show you were willing to defend yourself with edged steel, and you’d have officers of the law swarming you in seconds flat.

Which had always seemed utterly silly, as far as Tiburon was concerned. A sword didn’t have a trigger for a fumble-fingered idiot to pull, it couldn’t kill you a hundred yards away, and Highlander hijinks aside it was _not_ an easy thing to conceal. Hence the paperwork Alan was currently carrying in his wallet; swearing up, down, and sideways that his weapon was a prop sword, property of the school, only used for filming, and a half-dozen other blatant lies.

Ja’far had something similar for his ninja rope-knives. Tiburon hoped. He wasn’t sure. Ja’far was a lot of things, most of them very good things as far as the swordsman was concerned, but the magician’s opinion of law and order was less something to be respected and more _crunchy, and good with ketchup_.

_If our old memories wake up - if we keep going into the dungeon - will we be like that, too?_

“I doubt it,” Simon had said when he’d asked the other night, while Ja’far was out of earshot tending the youngsters. “I had some time to deal with the Magnos Clan, and I asked a lot of questions while I was there. To their credit, some of his friendlier relatives answered them. Aunts and uncles, mostly; his parents....” The principal had sighed. “The spell is a shock, and the clan’s ready to deal with that. But after a day or so, the old life is supposed to settle in, as if you’d just had a giant chunk of memories added to that big blank before you were born. Everything that’s made you the person you are _today_ is still there, and it’s the closest to the surface. The old life doesn’t have to change you unless you let it.”

“Supposed to?” Malachy had asked quietly.

“Ja’far has another name,” Simon had answered, eyes narrowed. “The one he was born with in this life. He just won’t use it. But as far as I can tell, that’s not because of the spell. It’s because his clan thought they were going to get a nice cuddly little magician housecat, and ended up with a snarling leopard instead.” He’d folded his arms, the picture of a man who wanted to wreak unholy havoc on _someone_ , if he could just figure out the correct target. “And then they couldn’t figure out what to _do_ with him.”

All told, it should have been a comforting thought. After all, what were the odds they’d all been leopards in the past?

_But I want to_ fight.

And this was Simon Cavins. The odds were probably a lot better than he liked to think.

...Although if Tiburon really poked that desire to fight, he had to admit a good part of it was bound up with Alan, not the dungeon. The monsters were a way to test himself as a survivor. Alan was testing him as a _teacher_. The youngster didn’t have - might not _ever_ have - his height, weight, or endurance. What he had were sharp reflexes, an uncanny sense of balance, and enough nerve to fuel a whole Black Ops team.

_Longsword, katana, scimitar; I do well with all of those. Alan’s shortsword and knife. Which means I have to train him for that, and what to do if he can’t get past his opponent’s guard_. Tiburon smiled, just a little. _Part of that’s going to include throwing knives... and when I know more, part of that’s going to include throwing fire_.

That still gave him a cold chill when he remembered their first spar. Pushing a fighter who didn’t yet _know_ he was a fighter was one thing. Pushing one who could pull out fire? They were lucky the whole salle hadn’t gone up.

Point to Malachy, he hadn’t known that when he’d all but tossed the kid at Tiburon. Probably.

_Damn, but I want to see what he can do!_

And if that meant upending his own schedule somewhat to train more here and less at his own salle - he could work with that. He’d known Malachy and Simon long enough to realize places weren’t important. Nice, but not important. _People_ were important.

_I... care about these people. A lot_.

And maybe that was the scariest part of this whole mess. He was happy.

_Monsters and magic and impossible worlds_ , Tiburon thought. _Simon’s right. Normal is so overrated-_

_Is that a news truck?_

...Then again, maybe normal had a few advantages, because he couldn’t ever remember panicking at seeing the local news poking around with a camera before.

_Don’t let them park here, don’t let them park- argh_.

He caught up with them within seconds of the door slamming. Roving reporter lady Taylor Oswald was staring up and up, the photographer was fiddling with his lenses as if the ball lightning wouldn’t come into proper focus, and the driver was hanging onto his door as if he wanted to jump back in and tear off down the road. Which argued he was the sanest of the bunch. “Excuse me, Miss! It’s school policy not to allow filming on the grounds while class is in session.”

Well. Not to allow any non-student filming, anyway. Simon had helped his kids produce no few indie films in the past few years. Between those and the larger film outfits who ended up taking on Hancock students as extras, no one wanted reporters loose in their scenes....

And apparently _giant tower with ball lightning_ won out over the usual professional courtesy and polite curiosity about the remnants of his accent, because Taylor didn’t even blink twice at the sword at his side. “How long has that been here?”

Damn. Where was Simon and his bluster when you needed him? “How long has what been here?” Tiburon said innocently.

The reporter gave him a _look_.

_Think. Think. What would Simon say?_ “Oh, you mean the film set!”

That won him an even more dubious look. But now her attention was focused on him, not the tower.

_Hope Ja’far keeps the kids in there a while,_ Tiburon thought, keeping a smile on his face through determined panic. _It’s got to be safer than dealing with this_....

* * *

“So everything is trying to kill us, except maybe some of the sheep.” Prescott McMullan ran nervous fingers through short black hair. One of their computer geeks and camera guys who hadn’t managed to step on something with pointy teeth, he watched Ja’far coach Aladdin through an antivenom spell on Tyler with blinking disbelief. “Are we sure we’re not in Australia?”

Alan snickered under his breath, even though he did feel sorry for Tyler. Really. His scraped hand had been just a scrape, but he’d let his filming enthusiasm get the better of his sense again and strayed down into the wet sand zone. This had not been a good idea.

Right now, Alan was keeping half his attention on his classmates, and half on Morgan to see if she twitched. Her senses were sharper than anyone else’s. Though even her nose couldn’t give much warning against something whose scent had been covered by inches of sand.

“Absolutely not Australia.” Michaela stood up from where she’d been carefully poking the multi-legged gilled creature that had been burrowing under the beach. She was still nervous as an anole watching a cat, but she was at least moving. That seemed like a good sign. “I’ve seen pictures of stonefish. This definitely isn’t one.”

“Not a fish,” Morgan agreed, rising to her feet. “I wouldn’t eat it.”

“I’m not sure I even want to take it back to the bio lab,” Michaela admitted. “Do you know anything about these, Mr. Ja’far?”

“It’s new to me, too.” Ja’far let the violet glow around his pencil-wand die, considering the very dead creature. “For now, I’d say we shouldn’t. It’s carrying a lethal load of venom and your fellow biology classmates haven’t seen how deadly this place is yet. It’d be too easy for someone to prick themselves on a spine and never realize they were in danger until it was too late. Once everyone understands that handling anything from the dungeon can be fatal, then we can start bringing back more dangerous specimens-”

Morgan jerked her gaze sideways, toward a damp pile of rocks that suddenly didn’t look so rocklike.

Alan didn’t stop to think. Yanking Prescott aside, he drew and slashed.

Writhing bits looked like stone, but they cut like hard flesh.

_Tentacles, but it’s not the eel-shark-thing, what the hell is this one-?_

* * *

Aladdin listened to yelps, squelches, and punches with half an ear, puzzling out Ja’far’s intricate antivenom spell. It was really, really neat. There were instructions to Fire on the tiniest scale, to destroy the toxin where it had dug into flesh. There were more to Water, likewise tiny, to wash as much venom back out of the wound as possible. And there were a list of commands to Life, to help the body’s own defenses grab the rest of the poison and destroy it without destroying the rest of the tissues around it. And all of it was meant to function with the smallest amount of magoi possible, so that even if the venom couldn’t be totally cured, at least the unlucky bitten person might survive.

_We’ve got enough power to do more than that. Lucky for Tyler_.  

“Aren’t you going to help them?” Michaela demanded. “That - some kind of anemone thing-!”

“They’ll be fine,” Aladdin said firmly, pushing up the power Ja’far’s spell normally had just a little bit. Not too much, Sphintus had always said encouraging a body to heal too much too fast was _really not good_. But enough to make sure the venom was gone. “You haven’t seen them really fight yet.”

There was a crackle of lightning. Alan swore.

“...They’re still alive,” Prescott said faintly.

“Told you.” Aladdin felt just a little smug. He could feel the rukh singing around his friends, dissonant notes slowly coming into harmony.

_They’ll remember who they are. They just need a little more time_.

“Most of you aren’t in Instructor MacLea or Instructor Tiburon’s classes,” Ja’far said briskly; one eye on Aladdin’s spellcraft, the other on his students. “Mr. Ryans and Miss Morgan are. So they’re a little more accustomed to physical danger than the rest of you. But that can be learned.”

“Danger!” Dash snorted. “You don’t see _them_ on the field-”

“Your opponents generally aren’t trying to kill you, Mr. Abbate,” Ja’far cut him off, face pale and hard as ice. “There aren’t any goalposts here. There aren’t any referees. The rule is survival, and keeping your companions alive. Four of us here know how to play that game.”

“Don’t worry.” Aladdin looked up as he ended the spell, giving Tyler a hand up. If he was reading the rukh right, there were at least two potential magicians here. One of whom he’d _known_ , a long time ago. Michaela might not ever remember being in 6th Kodor, but he could sense the faintest wisps of wind around her. “Some of you shouldn’t be getting into close fighting at all. I think Ja’far can teach you how to start looking-”

Something _splorched_ , like slime and writhing and heavy muscles dragging over sand.

Alan swore again, in words Aladdin _knew_ he had to have learned from Sharrkan. “A little help would be good!”

Aladdin glanced that way fast; Alan might not have enough confidence in himself yet, but the pair of them really ought to be....

_Um. That’s a_ lot _of anemones_.

People started scrambling back up the beach, as Aladdin raised his wand and tried to decide what targets to pick first, and how hard to hit them. On the one hand, every one of these monsters was as big as Dash and Kwan put together, and the rest of the class would really be in trouble if those tentacles hit. On the other, people were supposed to be learning to fight, and Alibaba had faced off with slimes this big in his very first dungeon, and it couldn’t be that hard to take on a few monsters, right?

Prescott latched onto his shoulder and started pulling. “It’s the _revenge of the edible snakelocks!_ ”

“Now you’ve done it!” Someone else yelped. “Principal Cavins is _so_ going to make us film that!”

Aladdin still wasn’t sure exactly what _filming_ was, besides something like capturing a play with a memory spell... but yeah, that sounded like Sinbad, all right.

Hmm. Water wasn’t his favorite element, but if people wanted to see these monsters again - it wouldn’t be that hard to just shove them back into the ocean.

Most of them, anyway....

* * *

_Stinging. Slimy. Tough!_

Morgan bounced between rubbery bodies, dodging whipping tentacles as Alan slashed and poked in the openings she created. These were a lot tougher than the wyverns.

Then again, they didn’t fly. Fair enough.

A wave reared up with a golden glow around it, sweeping half her opponents away.

_Aww_....

But the goal was to keep her classmates learning safely, not to cut loose and have fun. If it were only them she wouldn’t have worried, but Alan was splitting his attention between his opponents and their retreating classmates, and that wasn’t helping. “Let Ja’far worry about them!”

“Them, heck!” Alan skidded in wet rocks, ducking under the a swing of a muscular foot; that anemone lost three tentacles to his blade as it gripped rough stones, shuddering as it oozed blood and lightning. “I don’t think Aladdin really gets idiot teenagers-”

“I’ll kite them!”

Spear in hand, Kwan ran past them at a diagonal, mostly out of tentacle range, up and over one of the ridges of sea-rocks they definitely hadn’t cleared for the class as safe. Writhing, two of their foes humped after him.

“...Like that,” Alan sighed, spinning out of range of three nests of tentacles and giving a fourth a quick trim. “We’d better go get him.”

“I don’t know.” Morgan bared her teeth, punching through slimy hide to yank out what passed for its guts. “I don’t hear any screaming.” And if Kwan wasn’t screaming, then either he’d run into an immediate deathtrap - in which case, Aladdin would probably know through the rukh - or he wasn’t in that much trouble, and he could afford to take a lump or two.

“...Eeeep.”

Very quiet. Very faint. Very odd. As was the susurrus of the rocks and sand that direction, as if it were shifting in an earthquake too slight to feel.

“AaaaaaAA _AAIIIIEEEE!_ ”

The shriek dopplered past her ears as Kwan tore back past them, completely ignoring the anemones beyond sticking one in the mouth for trying to grab him as he fled past.

Still dealing with about eight more, Morgan blinked. She’d only seen that sort of casual violence when someone had adjusted to the battlefield - and she’d _swear_ Kwan hadn’t - or....

Air boomed, flung down by massive wings. A tail lashed up sun-warmed sand, twisting with all the annoyance of a rudely awakened basking tiger. A horned head lifted into the air, smoke curling from garnet nostrils; four sets of massive claws fisted like a falcon ready to strike.

... _Or they just saw something worse_.

“Out! Out!” Alan yelled over the sudden chorus of screams. _“Everybody out!”_

* * *

Curled in midair, Baal shook his head. It was as well none of his fellow Djinn were here. Vaalefor would want _popcorn_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No quiero que mintás. I don't want you to lie.   
> Kids and Ja’far - let’s hear it for Wrong Genre Savvy. *EG*  
> Edible snakelocks - the snakelocks anemone (Anemonia sulcata) is indeed edible, and offered as a delicacy in parts of Spain.   
> And as for the popcorn... one of my beta readers tossed Baal a bag. ;)


	8. Crunchy, and Good With Ketchup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with dragons. And reporters. I think I'd take the dragons....

Cursing Baal and all his ancestors to the netherworld wouldn’t do any good; and might do harm, if the Djinn thought himself personally offended. Knives flying, Ja’far settled for swearing at monsters in general and dragons in specific.

Knives. Not magic. Lightning was his best magic after Life, but anything in Baal’s dungeon would probably eat a lightning bolt for lunch. And Life spells were _insanely_ dangerous to use in combat if you weren’t highly trained in what you were doing. Which he was not. The Magnos Clan might be good at bringing ancient memories of magic back, and amazing at determining how to optimize spells people remembered so they used far less magoi, yet they were still a _clan_ , not an organized school of hundreds of magicians. Their skills at training new magicians beyond the basics were a bit... lacking. When it came to trying to reinvent Life spells - horrible memories of fungoid abominations were dancing through his mind, some of them far too current, and Simon would never, ever forgive him if he accidentally unleashed a zombie apocalypse.

And if he used one of the elements he wasn’t good at - the way his spells were off, any attempted fireball stood as good a chance of frying the students as the dragon. Probably better; the students were shoving past him to the doorway, while the dragon was still some distance away. Circling. Gauging its prey. Looking for the weakest target.

_Far too many of those. At least I was right about our three,_ Ja’far reflected, as his unofficial assistants fell back on his position to guard the students’ retreat. _Aladdin’s using Borgs like fighting for the world was only yesterday. Morgan might have held back outside the tower, but with Alan in danger, she’s as lethal as any Fanalis protecting the folk of her pride. And_ _Alan may have been raised a modern teen, but scratch the surface, and there’s still a responsible Prince of Balbadd in that soul. He’ll use whatever he has to, to protect those in his care._

_Even if he doesn’t trust it_.

There was steel in Alan’s left hand as well, now; small, oval, with a familiar eight-pointed star almost hidden in the hinges.

_In his hand,_ Ja’far thought, keeping up a headcount. Half his students were out, the slower half still straggling. _But he’s not using it. Am I pushing too hard? Or not hard enough?_ “Call Amon!”

“Right,” Alan panted, between slashing tentacles and muscled feet that squirmed under Aladdin’s Borg or oozed past Morgan’s fists. “And end up flat on my face?”

Ja’far caught that flicker of Alan’s attention toward still-fleeing students, and could have slapped himself. _Millennia and lives away, and that’s still Prince Alibaba Saluja_.

Risk his own life? He wouldn’t have hesitated. Risk burdening people he cared about with his unconscious body while they were trying to get away from a dragon?

_Damn it! He has a Metal Vessel, but there’s no way he’ll use it unless there’s no other choice!_

Under other circumstances Ja’far would applaud that restraint. But at the moment he had to admit to a very unteacher-like frustration.

_If he can’t trust us to look after ourselves, who can he trust?_

Aladdin dropped back beside Ja’far, red rukh already gathering Heat Magic about his staff. “I can help!”

“No! Keep that Borg up!” Alan ducked as anemone guts sailed past him from the squelch of Morgan’s feet in leathery muscle. “We’re almost out of here. Everything in this dungeon uses lightning! If it breathes just once-!”

_He really_ doesn’t _remember everything_.

Which gave Ja’far cold chills, because Alibaba had _known_ Drakon. He’d seen Sinbad’s Assimilated General march on the Medium and its Dark Djinn, breathing fire....

Like a sail catching wind, the dragon inhaled.

* * *

 “No, Simon, you _need_ to get out here,” Tiburon hissed into his phone, smiling at the lady reporter as he kept himself between her and the tower stairs. He had no idea what the dungeon would do with a trio of reporters and he had absolutely no intention of finding out. “We need a charm offensive and we need it _right now_ -”

“-aaaaAAAAAAAAIIIIEEEE!”

Screaming, wet, sometimes bloodied teenagers started thumping through the portal onto the landing, the first girl through dropping her borrowed spear and scrambling up to help yank others out of the way of falling bodies.

_I don’t see Ja’far. Or Aladdin, or Morgan, or Alan- oh, hell_. “Simon. Tower problem,” Tiburon bit out, already racing up the stairs to help clear the landing. “Bring Malachy. _Now._ ”

_Headcount, Ja’far brought twenty in, I’ve got ten, no twelve, here comes another_ -

“Mr. Tiburon!” The black-haired girl who’d dropped his spear yanked her head up from shoving people down the stairs. “We have to get away from the doorway! It might get through!”

_Sixteen, seventeen - that’s everybody but the combatants, trust the people at the sharp end!_ Tiburon stopped assessing injuries, and started just pushing anyone who could walk her way. “What might get-”

Fire roared through the doorway, sheeting over the edges of a glowing golden sphere.

Snarling ancient slanders on the whole reptilian race, Ja’far tumbled through in a pile of armed teenagers.

Morgan bounced up first, hauling the other three with her by main force. “Dragon!”

...He did not just hear that, Tiburon thought. They’d been in the safe area, what in Solomon’s name had happened? “What?”

“Drag-!”

The roar shook him to the bones, as a huge, hot-breathed, _angry_ form shoved its way through the doorway, wings curling out to claw at the sky.

Dimly, Tiburon felt his phone shatter.

* * *

_Dragons_ , Callimachus thought, with a stunned awe he hadn’t felt in over a century. _It has dragons_.

“Magister?” Phaenomena cleared her throat, crouching by him coiled and ready to strike. “Maybe we should fall back. Set the plan off another day-”

“It has _dragons_ , Phaenomena.”

“...Right. What was I thinking- Magister, look!”

His eyes weren’t as good as Phaenomena’s, even when she wasn’t using binoculars. But he could see the flow of the rukh about Cavins and the tall redhead as they rushed out the school’s back door for the tower.

_And there’s our little bluebird with the students, and his friends_. “Wait,” he ordered, as that wonderful, impossible creature circled up into the sky. “If that tower is a portal the stairs may not be fully affected by our spell. Wait....”

Blue, red, and mouse-brown hair were hurrying down the steps; gazes looking to the deadly sky, a faint golden shimmer cast above other students by Ala’-adin’s wand.

“Now!”

Phaenomena pressed the remote.

* * *

Running into Fomoire chains, Simon discovered, was rather like running into a bulldozer at full throttle.

... _Ow_.

The red-black chains were everywhere; sinking into his skin, dragging terrified students crashing down mid-flight, and bringing even Malachy beside him to a gasping, white-faced halt.

_Womanizer of the Seven Seas chained down under a hungry dragon_ , Simon thought, all too able to picture the tabloid pictures. Somewhere behind him the school fire alarm was going off; as if they didn’t have enough problems. _There’s a certain irony in that_.

Distantly, he heard Ja’far’s pained yelp.

_Fomoire chains kill magicians. And Fanalis_.

He didn’t know how he’d drawn the sword at his side; though the blood dripping from his nose told him he’d pay for it later. But he had, and this sword _would cut_ chains, he’d _make_ it work. He had students and friends to rescue-

Shadows fell over them, as the dragon stooped.

_The children,_ Simon thought, feeling like he was moving through a wall of sludge as he brought his blade to bear on Malachy’s chains. He could hear people pouring out of the school behind them, just as they’d practiced in so many fire drills before; hear their yells, and then weakening screams, as more chains surged from the ground to trap them. _It’ll go for the children_.

_“Khul ja shem-shamayim!”_

Two voices; Alan’s determined, Aladdin’s joyful as any magician about to hand an unsuspecting foe a _really bad day_.

In a bright circle around them, chains shattered.

... _I have to get them to teach me that trick_.

The four of them were off the ground on Aladdin’s flying carpet, Morgan cradling Ja’far as the magician stirred and coughed.

_He’ll be fine_. Simon slashed through the chains binding one of Malachy’s arms as the pale redhead gritted his teeth and shattered another with the key strapped under his wrist wraps. _The rest of the students won’t be_ -

Blue and white and red headed for cleared ground; Morgan leapt clear of the turban, dropping Ja’far on his feet as she grabbed and snatched students out of lava-black chains, teeth bared in something that wasn’t anything like a smile.

White cloth whipped upward.

* * *

_Watch the throat_ , Ja’far had said, before Morgan had jumped with them both. _Dragons have a pouch there; when it swells, they’re about to breathe with magoi_.

Alan stared at that swelling throat as Aladdin took them upward, and wondered if he’d ever done anything stupider in his life.

_It’s a fire-breather_ , Aladdin had said as they fell back through the tunnel to Earth. _Amon loves fire!_

And nobody’d had to say anything when the chains surged up and the dragon was soaring over them, free. His fellow students might as well have been goats pegged out for a _T. rex_ , Aladdin had limits on how big he could make his Borg without some prep time, and this dragon had already proved it liked its dinner _crunchy_. As in charcoal.

Aladdin’s hand gripped his arm, just for a moment. “You can do this.”

Alan couldn’t answer that, as the scaled throat twitched and he heard the first hiss of the exhale. Because sucking the deadly heat out of a geyser was one thing, but this was _dragonfire_. The kind of flame that incinerated knights, put entire cities to the torch, and melted evil rings like butter.

_This is gonna suck_.

Flames poured down like a hurricane.

_Hot. So hot_....

Alan closed his eyes, praying Aladdin was right and Amon could convert the flames into magoi before they toasted him. And everyone behind him. Closed his eyes, and held his breath, chest already aching.

_Don’t breathe, you idiot, burns might heal but seared lungs mean you die choking-!_

: _Breathe, my king._ :

A whisper out of dreams. Or nightmares.

: _Aladdin’s Chosen. He who stands between his people and disaster. What can mere fire do to us? It is our lifeblood, our very bones!_

: _Open your eyes, my king. And breathe!_ :

Gold and streaming scarlet and dancing flickers of blue. Everything was fire, and it was beautiful.

_So much power_.

His hair should have been crisping. His eyes should have been _melting_. But it was as if heat that could melt steel was no worse than a hot summer’s breeze.

_I need to do something with this, before I go up like a sparkler. I need to_ -

: _Share_.:

“Dwell within my body, Amon!”

Flames embraced him, and the world shifted.

He stared into slit dragon eyes as the dungeon beast gazed at him, out of fire and suddenly struggling to stay aloft.

_Right. Let’s keep you distracted_.

The leap felt light and easy as any of Morgan’s, though there was no way he was going to try any of her aerial flourishes. Not with a massive black blade to throw him off. Someone could get hurt. Like the dragon.

_Nice dragon_.

He touched down between its shoulders, garnet scales rough and cool under flame-bare feet as white sand baking in noon sun. “Easy, now,” Alan murmured, as his perch let out an indignant shriek and started wriggling in midair. “I just need a look from here, long enough to see - aha. That’s how you’re doing it.”

The eight-pointed spell-star feeding the Fomoire chains was obvious from this height, silver tinged with gold and violet energies bright as the swarms of rukh in the air. It seethed and flowed like water surging through an endless mill-race, drinking in its victims’ own strength to power it.

_But the power’s contained. Channeled. And that means - there, at the points. He’s holding it with foci_. Alan blinked at the shimmering twist of runes above each disk of black glass, wrapping around magoi to shape it into traps of fear and pain. And blinked again, caught off-guard by a feeling of _movement_ where there shouldn’t be-

_No time! There’s the problem, so hit it!_

He swung overhand and down, flames lashing out to cut through the nearest disk like paper. The star... shattered.

Alan grinned, and leapt, before foot-long fangs could try to snap his head off. Fire was draining from his veins like blood, he was going to _hurt_ after this-

But he was in front of startled monster eyes again, and hauled back to punch a scaly nose with a hilt-weighted fist. _“Go home!”_

The dragon squealed like an overwrought teakettle. The world... guttered out.

_Cold air... falling_....

Warm arms, latching around him stronger than steel.

_Morgan_.

Alan turned his head into silken safety, and let the world go away.

* * *

Morgan clutched her friend to her, and braced for landing in what was left of the tennis courts. Even for a Fanalis, this was going to hurt-

Flames burst around them as her feet brushed the ground, cushioning a hundred-foot drop to something more like accidentally stepping off a second-floor window ledge. Not fun, but not crushing.

“Thanks,” Morgan murmured, stepping barefoot out of shattered green pavement. “That helped.”

Alan mumbled something sleepy into her shoulder. Even her ears only caught something like _pretty lethal kitty_.

Morgan blushed. He’d bashed a dragon in the nose for them, and he thought _she_ was pretty?

She hadn’t seen everything that had happened, too busy keeping their screaming classmates from running back up the steps or into the spell-trapped grounds of their school. And she couldn’t blame them for running, they had no idea that throwing fire at Alan _didn’t hurt him_....

She’d had to bite her own lip, as Alan stood between them and the flames. Because yes, she knew Alan could handle a geyser but that was _dragonfire_. Legends said you might as well try to walk on the sun.

_He burned. I saw it_.

Only he’d burned without burning, _outside_ of the Borg protecting Aladdin, flames sheeting around him like a phoenix-veil of gold and ruby. And when the fire had vanished, sucked away as if something had simply breathed it in-

_Gold, and flowing white, and red like waiting lava_.

She didn’t know if she could ever get Alan to dress like that on an ordinary day, all gold ornaments and flowing two-layered red and snow-white kilts; like something out of Ancient Egypt, or temple paintings of gods going to war. But she _had_ to gang up with Aladdin and get Alan to pierce his ears, because he looked _awesome_.

_Like storybooks of the Fire Prince_ , Morgan thought, cuddling him close. _If they let someone print it up with the bishounen version_.

And he’d jumped like Uncle Malachy showing off and slashed _fire_ down to shatter Fomoire chains like balsa wood and _punched a dragon in the nose_. She had to bring him home to Aunt Shionne.

“That was awesome!” Aladdin swooped down, fluttering cloth folding itself away into his shirt as his feet touched the ground. “But do you smell Callimachus? If he cast a spell like that, I bet he’s not too far!”

Most people would ask if she saw him. Morgan inhaled, frowning. “Alan burned most of the scents out of the air- there!”

Aladdin whipped his head that way, blue eyes determined.

Morgan scowled, ready to scream at him if that’s what it would take to slow him down. “Don’t go alone!”

He glanced back at her, and nodded firmly. “I won’t. Uncle Simon! Ja’far! Tiburon!”

And he was off. Argh.

A near-soundless footfall, and Uncle Malachy’s hand landed on her shoulder. “I’ll go after them.”

* * *

_We’ve just ticked off a potential sorcerer, an allied martial artist, a ninja, and a swordsman, and any of the Kid Sidekicks still standing_ , Phaenomena thought, dragging her boss off the roof of the van by main force. _And I don’t know what that fiery_ thing _was, besides tough enough to shatter a mass chain spell and make a dragon go eep_.

_Right. Fallback plan D_.

“But the dragon-!”

“Inside, Magister!”

Phaenomena dropped him into his seat, and scrambled over into her own. Checked her rearview mirror, and pulled out into the road. Not rushing. Almost sedate - and dodging almost off the shoulder of the road as the first firetruck wailed by.

Pulled back onto the blacktop as the truck made the screeching turn, and accelerated tamely away.

_Not fast, not too fast, they’ll know there were arsonists and even a Red Lion can’t run as fast as the speed limit_....

Though she thought she caught a glimpse of red in the rearview just before they crested the hill. Which was _too damn close_.

_Turn off into the next subdivision, left, right, left and slow for that crazy curve_....

She pulled into the graveled remnants of what had been a driveway before a hurricane had wrecked portions of the coast here a decade past; no one had bothered rebuilding after the ruins had been torn down, and the pampas grass was tall and thick enough to hide a helicopter, much less their small white van. “Stay put!”

A leap out, and Phaenomena tore white paper and tape off both sides of the van, unveiling stark blue-and-black imagery. Another yank, and the plate she’d lifted from an unsuspecting minivan came loose, leaving their own plate innocently in view. The stolen plate _plonk_ ed out of sight in a drainage ditch full of cattails; the paper balled into her jacket pockets, and her jacket and t-shirt were tossed in the back amongst large toolboxes as she shrugged on a slightly grimy long-sleeved blue workshirt with _Anne_ lettered over her left chest.

“Coastal Plumbers,” Phaenomena quoted at her surprised alchemist, shoving a logoed cap on his head as she restarted the van and pulled out. “We fix what your boyfriend repaired!”

* * *

_I want to kill them_.

Simon sheathed his sword as he stood by the road, breathing hard, running plate numbers through his head to the background of his friends cursing in at least three languages as a disgruntled Malachy reappeared over the crest of the hill. No luck catching them on foot, then. And Aladdin had dropped out of the air to stand by them moments before the firetruck had wailed into the scene, meaning the magi thought the chance of being seen was too great to risk pursuing even those who’d harmed his friends.

“ _Damn_ it,” Tiburon finished, sheathing his own blade with vicious care. A track of blood was drying from one green eye, and his own nosebleed had left red dots on his t-shirt.

Ja’far cleared his throat, evidently packing away the last of the Sudini curses in his head. “We need to get back to the students. I don’t think the chains were draining them long enough for anyone to need a hospital, but if we don’t ensure they get enough magoi back we’re going to have one hell of a flu season-”

“I want to kill them,” Simon remarked; feeling eerily calm, even as blood seemed to drum in his ears. “I warned them off. I told them there would be consequences if they came back. They did, and they hurt my students, and I _want to kill them_.” He made himself breathe, deep and slow. “That’s... probably not a wise idea, is it?”

Ja’far raised an eyebrow. “I have locations picked to dispose of bodies.”

“...Of course you do.”

That actually brought some color to his magician’s cheeks. “I’m - sorry. You’re not used to... they hurt _your people_ , Simon. Of course you want to kill them.”

_He’s not surprised_. Wary, Simon glanced down at Aladdin. Magi or not, he was _fourteen_ , there was no way he’d take discussions of disposing of bodies calmly-

Blue eyes were looking back up at him, calm and uncannily wise. “I don’t want to,” Aladdin said steadily. “But you warned them. And they hurt a lot of people who couldn’t fight back.” His face brightened. “But if you _really_ want revenge, Uncle Simon, make it so the next time they try something, there’s more of us who can stop them!”

Startled, Simon reached out, and ruffled blue hair. “Now, that... sounds like an _excellent_ idea.”

_Why do I feel as though I’ve just dodged a bullet?_

Ja’far tried to hide his huff of breath, but Simon caught that slight slip of tension out of his shoulders. “What?”

The magician traded a glance with the magi. “You can be a very ruthless person, if you have to be,” Ja’far said quietly. “I think Aladdin and I would both rather you didn’t have to be.”

“That’s why I’m going to help you help Alan stay here,” Aladdin nodded. “You make people believe in _you_ , Uncle Simon. Alibaba made people believe in themselves. Put both of those together, and we can teach people to handle magic and evil on their own. So you don’t have to go to those dark places to fight it for them. Not again.”

“We were Special Ops?” Tiburon asked warily, as Malachy rejoined them with a mild look of annoyance and a twitch of toes that crumbled part of the road shoulder.

“We were the law and guardians of Sindria.” Ja’far touched the knives up his sleeves, and headed back towards their school. “And we were protecting our people from Al-Thamen. Everything you’ve ever heard about them in story, every rumor, every dark horror? _They did it_. And they meant to extinguish all life on the world.” Gray eyes cut at Tiburon like a blade. “Think of what you’d be willing to do, yourself, to keep this world alive. Then imagine a world in which you have the right _and responsibility_ to do it.”

Tiburon blanched.

“Al-Thamen’s gone.” Aladdin tucked his wand back up his sleeve. “We, all of us, gave up a lot to make that happen. Whoever Callimachus is, and whatever he wants, he’s not worth giving up what we know is _right_.” That blue gaze gripped Ja’far tight as kitten claws. “Let’s go home.”

Wordless, the magician nodded.

_Home_. Simon savored the word as they headed back toward the sirens and chaos. _I have my people, I have my students, and Ja’far’s happy. This_ is _home_.

_Now I just need to find a way to protect it without killing anyone_ -

“Wait.” Malachy frowned, and swiped at Simon’s face with a bit of rag. “Tiburon. Clean up before the paramedics see us.”

“Wha- when did- nothing hit me in the nose,” Tiburon protested, licking his finger to swipe away some of the crust.

“Magoi exhaustion,” Ja’far said clinically. “You broke free, didn’t you?”

“Not in time to go hack at-” The swordsman rubbed at his cheek, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “I mean, I was going to try and keep the dragon away from the students.... What _was_ that, with the fire, and the gold, and...?”

“Whatever it was, we officially didn’t see it,” Simon said firmly, as they came back into sight of scared students, possibly even more scared teachers, and firemen swearing at the wreck that had apparently been Callimachus’ work setting fire to the fieldhouse. “We saw a fire, and some kind of gas loose in the air, and a pair of very suspicious characters who just pulled their getaway in a white van. Is Alan going to be all right?”

“Morgan’s got him,” Aladdin said confidently. “He’ll be fine.”

* * *

_There they are_. Morgan picked up a pale and bloodied cousin over each shoulder, and darted back to where she’d left Alan resting up against the chainlink fence.

“Ow!”

“Damn it, Morg-!”

“Good, you’re awake.” Well before the paramedics who’d showed up could get anywhere near them. Emergency medical treatment on a half-conscious MacLea could be dangerous. Morgan handed Ianatan a paper towel to wipe his face; Dougal sat up himself, even if he looked a little green. “I was worried.”

“So was I,” Dougal admitted. “Where’s the magician?”

Morgan nodded over the hill. “Uncle and Principal Cavins went after him.”

“How... was Dad still moving?” Ianatan managed. The younger of her cousins looked like he was regretting every meal he’d eaten in the past week. But he was thinking, where Dougal preferred to crack knuckles first and think about things later.

“The dungeon helps,” Morgan said soberly. “We should all go in this weekend. Aunt Shionne could make fried catfish, and we could have a picnic.”

“That much fun, huh?” But Dougal’s eyes narrowed as he glanced up the road. “Looks like they lost the spell-flinger. Who can cast something like that?”

“Who can break something like that?” Ianatan made another swipe over his face, a little less green. “Did I really see Instructor Tiburon cut himself loose?”

Morgan nodded.

“Wow.” Ianatan shook his head a little; winced. “And Dad wants us to kidnap _him_ for the clan?”

Dougal snickered. “No, little bro. This time, we’re going to take the subtle approach.”

“Right. Mom with the frying pan and the hot needles?” Ianatan straightened, then rolled his eyes and leaned back against the fence with sigh. “Morgan. What. The hell. Came out of that tower? It smells like... fire, and scales, and not anything I’ve seen....”

“Dragon,” Morgan said succinctly.

Eyes as roan as her own locked on hers, as the same slow grin crept over her cousins’ faces. “Really?” Dougal breathed. “I mean, for _real_ , the thing that’s stronger than _we_ are?”

“For real,” Morgan affirmed. “And there are lots of them.”

“Best. School. Ever,” Ianatan vowed. Took a deep breath - and stiffened. Glanced sideways at Alan, where she’d leaned him half-sitting up against the fence, face resting against a bundled-up sweatshirt. “Why does he smell like the dragon?”

Morgan smiled, and tapped her fist against her nose. “Why do you think?”

Her cousins exchanged startled looks. “Okay,” Dougal said slowly. “Just what did we miss?”

* * *

“Yes, that’s the plate number I saw,” Simon was informing the lead fireman, as smoke dwindled down to a bare, soggy trickle from seared wood. “A flare? Really? My god! What were they thinking? You _can’t_ just set a fire in this suburb, the pines and scrub will go up like tinder! My students could have been- well, Mr. Mantooth, I’m just grateful it wasn’t worse than it is. No, no _idea_ why anyone would try to set the school on fire. Though... I grant you I wouldn’t want to speak ill of anyone, after all I’m sure Miss Taylor and her crew think they had a _perfectly newsworthy_ reason to act contrary to safety, sanity, and school policy, and try to steal shots _in the middle of one of our stunt sets_.”

Yards away in a knot of shaken students, Ja’far tried not to snicker. In one stroke Simon had managed to thump right on the tender nerves of every fireman who’d had to work around daredevil cameramen and wide-eyed reporters asking how people _felt_ about their houses burning down. In a small local department like theirs, that’d be most of them.

“Of course it was a stunt!” Simon harrumphed, eyeing a soot-streaked roving reporter. “Tiburon told you that you were on a set. Ah, I need to make a note - full marks to Miss Michaela for quick thinking, ad-libbing to cover for him in that scene, he wasn’t supposed to be in the shot-”

_“Those were not special effects!”_

Ja’far winced, and bet every Fanalis in earshot was cringing. Taylor Oswald had managed to hit a particularly piercing note of terrified indignation, and his fingers itched to throw something at her.

Simon... smiled.

_Must not laugh,_ Ja’far told himself firmly. _Must not_.

“Oh, I’m certain it’s not the effects you’re used to, Miss I-play-with-the-weather-graphics,” Simon stated, a wave of his hand giving just the slightest touch of experienced condescension to grace his obvious pride in his work. “Digital effects are like paint. They can add color, touch up a setting, and bring a touch of fantasy we might find hard to reach any other way. But they are _paint_. The physical bones of setting, action, characters - all of those have to be there, first. There is absolutely no substitute for actual stunts; and the truer to life we can make them at filming, the better. Oh, of course we teach our students the tricks of the trade, the flash and editing out microsecond blinks and all those bits that polish a production - but they are just that. Finishing touches, not the be-all and end-all of special effects.” Brown eyes gave her a cutting look. “No, none of this was digital. And it looks as though _someone_ might have gotten into our restricted SFX supplies.”

“Hey, I never said,” Miss Oswald stammered.

“And I _will_ find out how,” Simon went on, speaking over her with casual calm. “Those aren’t easy to acquire or cheap, and all of us here take pride in handling such creations with the proper respect and care. Anyone who wants to play with pyrotechnics can sign up for the workshop, we hold at least one a month, with everything lit off on _solid concrete_ \- you hadn’t heard, Mr. Mantooth? You are _definitely_ invited, sir! Always good to have more experienced personnel around when we’re playing with fire....”

Listening to Simon rant onward about pyrotechnics, Buster Keaton’s most famous train stunt, and Jim Henson’s creature work, Ja’far hid a smile. _You can charm even men used to fighting for their lives against fire. Now, that’s skill_.

Wand hidden up his sleeve, he cast one of the Life spells he’d perfected on his own; a minor diagnostic that would lead him to anyone still dangerously short of magoi. The subtle violet ripple sparked through the air at ground level, no one should notice-

Well. From the startled looks he was getting from his battered gym class, a few of them _did_ notice. Michaela especially.

But she set her jaw and kept her mouth shut, and the rest glanced at her and followed suit. Even if Dash and Kwan looked like they wanted to tackle him and start asking questions.

The subtle pulse shifted information back to him through the rukh, and Ja’far let out a relieved breath. “Everyone will be fine,” he told the students, voice low. “You might want to let our principal do the talking.” He glanced over them, trying to keep his gaze gentle. “None of you has to go back in there. But if you’re not totally against the idea... I think I’ll be brainstorming with the other instructors to make the situation a little less hectic. Smaller groups, for one.”

“Smaller?” Kwan choked.

Dash shoved an elbow into his ribs. “Duh, think about it. Too many guys on the field trip over each other!”

“Exactly,” Ja’far nodded, pleasantly surprised. “And smaller groups are quieter. We’ll have to scout even the safest areas. There weren’t dragons sunbathing on the beach last time.”

“How are-?” Michaela nodded over toward the fence, where two redheads were still flaked out and Morgan was curled around Alan while Aladdin sat by them and projected an aura of Utter Innocence.

“They just need some time to recover.” Ja’far glanced behind him, where Tiburon had been absently sneaking up in his blind spot. “You might want to keep the lessons light today.”

Tiburon sighed, running fingers through unruly dark hair. “No kidding. That... _ow_.” Green eyes narrowed. “Does this mean we’re not doing any more runs today?”

Ja’far gave him a flat stare.

“Aww....”

Ja’far dropped his head, trying not to giggle in exhaustion. On the one hand, he had half a mind to brain Tiburon with the nearest hard object. On the other-

_All I need is Yamraiha to show up and start berating him about magic being so much better than sharp pointy things, and the day would be_ perfect.

“Who’s Yamraiha?”

Ja’far glanced up into Tiburon’s frown, startled. _I said that out loud?_ “Ah... someone you haven’t met.”

“Oh?” Tiburon drew out the word, giving him a look askance. “Will I?”

_Oh, I wish. I wish so much_....

“Hey.” The swordsman had him by the shoulder, eyes creased in worry. “Maybe you’d better sit down.”

_Good idea_.

Tiburon crouched by him as Ja’far rubbed at an energy-drain headache. “I guess I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, it’s....” Ja’far shrugged, trying to put the hurt aside. “The odds against finding this many of you were already high enough.”

“And you don’t want to hope for something that might never happen,” Tiburon said softly. “Ouch.”

“I’ve gotten more than I could ever hope for,” Ja’far said firmly. _Even if Aladdin’s the only one who truly remembers_ -

“What do you need to prep that... thing the Magnos do?”

Ja’far blinked. _What?_

“You’re the one keeping all of us together right now,” Tiburon went on, staring him down like he was judging a new student. “You’re the only one who knows how much trouble we’re really in, and how much more we could be. It’s not fair to leave all of that on you.” Tiburon held out his hand. “And you’re my friend.”

“...You don’t believe in magic,” Ja’far got out.

“Who has to believe in magic? I believe in you.” Tiburon grinned. “And I’ve got a shortsword student who needs all the help I can give him. I’ll crib moves from anyone I can get my hands on.”

_He means it. He really does mean it_. “It’ll take some time for me to gather the right supplies,” Ja’far stated. Though half that time wouldn’t be getting components, but mastering his own calm; the idea of someone deliberately walking into past memories was deeply unsettling. “And I may need Aladdin’s help.” _Since I don’t have a whole clan backing me. But... oh Solomon, if he’s willing, I could have one of my crazy friends back_ -

Something occurred to him, and Ja’far almost snickered, as he finally reached out to grip strong fingers. “You’re going to dump the muscle shirts out of your wardrobe.”

Tiburon held his grip, despite what had to be a startled urge to back away from the crazy. “What?”

“At least the short ones,” Ja’far mused.

“...Why?” Tiburon asked warily.

Ja’far smirked.

* * *

“Dad!”

Malachy hugged his boys, relieved. It was one thing to know he’d trained his children, warned them, armed them as much as anyone could be armed against malevolent magic. It was quite another to see and scent them, holding them close and discreetly patting them down for any injuries they might have neglected to mention to the fire department.

_They’re alive. Good_.

“Dad,” Dougal grumbled, eyes sliding toward other watching students. “Come on.”

Ianatan didn’t whisper a word of complaint, resting his head on his father’s shoulder for one moment of pure relief before he straightened and shrugged. “We’re in one piece. I think.”

“Good.” Malachy let go, and glanced at the other knot of kids by the fence. Aladdin was sitting cross-legged on the grass, calm but with a little crease of worry between his brows. Morgan had her back against a fencepost, one arm around Alan as he blinked at the world through half-shut eyes. “The flare was the only source of the fire. We’ll be heading back into classes soon....” Malachy frowned, as Ja’far dropped down beside Alan and Morgan. “Thought you said he’d be fine.”

“Am fine,” Alan mumbled, eyes sliding shut again. “Morgan’s not gonna drop me....”

“He’s okay. Just tired.” Aladdin stood up as Ja’far took out his wand. “But you’re not. Let me help.”

Ja’far didn’t even twitch in protest as Aladdin rested his hand over the magician’s. Malachy frowned.

“I will be fine,” Ja’far said firmly, catching his glance. “After some rest.” A faint purple glow lit tumbled stones at the tip of his wand, and he seemed to relax a hair. “And that’s what Alan needs, too. He has enough magoi at the moment, but the amount he moved to carry out... what he did....”

Both his sons were looking at Alan very warily, Malachy noted. As if they were adding up whatever they’d seen, and what they saw now, and decided it didn’t quite match. And as he’d told them time and again, if you found yourself suddenly reevaluating your opponent’s capabilities, there was no dishonor in withdrawing from a fight. At a dead run, if you had to.

Though Alan _should not_ be their opponent. Damn it.

_Right_ , Malachy told himself wryly. _And at their age, would you have listened when your father told you a younger,_ normal _human might be biting off more than you could chew?_   

Probably not. At least not without a demonstration. Or two. Or three. MacLeas were not just hard-headed, they could be positively _thrawn_. A word that simply didn’t translate well from the Gaelic; _perverse, contrary, difficult_ , and _defiant_ all being pale shadows of a Fanalis with a good snarl on.

_So I need to get them to see what he can do in just an ordinary fight_. Malachy pressed his lips together, not quite huffing in frustration. “He won’t be able to practice today?”

Ja’far glanced up, as if he’d read that whole grouchy decision in one breath. “He may be tired, but he _should_ practice today. Physical exercise will help ground him.”

“Sitting right here,” Alan mumbled.

“Good. Then you can stay sitting and listen,” Ja’far said dryly. “You’ve got a good tolerance for moving magoi; even more than your body can physically hold. Which is the only reason you didn’t go up like a Roman candle. But moving that much power has... side-effects.”

One gold eye cracked open. “Like what?”

Ja’far’s expression was carefully neutral. “Rest for right now. Go to your lessons, and let Tiburon judge how much you should fight. After that- Malachy, I hate to impose, but he shouldn’t go home tonight.”

“Hey!” Alan protested.

“You singed your _soul_ ,” Ja’far said sharply. “I am not sending you back into that house tonight, any more than I’d let a burn victim wander loose without bandages. You are going somewhere safe. Where you can rest, and heal.” Dusting his knees off, he stood. “Malachy, when you take him home, _feed him_. He probably won’t want to eat. Fire magoi may be just what a Djinn asked for but it’s not enough food for a teenage boy.”

Aladdin’s gaze was fierce. “Amon wouldn’t hurt him!”

“Aladdin....” Ja’far sighed. “I know they’re your friends. But Djinn _aren’t human_. And they may not know that much more about how much magic modern humans can tolerate than you do. I don’t think Alan’s hurt; not from fire. Though if he’d had to deal with lightning on top of that he would have been. But he does need to take it easy for a night.” Gray eyes glittered with evil mischief. “No punching dragons for at least the next twenty-four hours.”

Gold eyes opened wide, alarmed. “Oh no. _Please_ , tell me nobody saw that.”

“Why?” Aladdin said; almost innocently, if you didn’t catch that faint wicked grin as he scratched at the base of his braid. “You were awesome.”

Alan groaned, burying his head in the crook of Morgan’s neck to hide from the world. “...I am _so dead_.”

Morgan smiled up at her uncle, and Malachy had to try not to laugh. If Morgan were a kitten, she’d be prancing in front of him, a wide-eyed fire-mouse blinking at them both from where she’d scruffed his neck, her tail curled in a fluffy plume of _look what I caught!_

_Eh, not bad_ , Malachy thought, watching the boy curl deeper into her shoulder. The boy who’d managed to drain down dragonfire and scare the beast off in seconds flat. _Not bad at all_.

Morgan blinked at her catch, and then glanced at him; all upwards through long dark lashes and _Please? I've been a good girl_....

Malachy grinned. “Yes. You can keep him.”

Morgan beamed, brighter than sunlight.

Malachy watched her stroke short hair, already thinking through the phone call he planned to make to Shionne. Extra kids at the dinner table weren’t a problem as long as they started cooking a little earlier....

Morgan was staring at her fingers, buried in mouse-brown hair. Bent her head closer, as if studying the faintest cricket-tracks left in dry sand.

Malachy narrowed his eyes, focusing beyond the faint scents of human, dragon, and fire. Mouse-brown and ordinary; like the boy himself, if you didn’t know enough to read the first trace of callus on a sword-student’s hands.

But where Morgan’s fingers parted hair, roots gleamed like dusted gold.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bishounen - “pretty boy”, manga style.


	9. Reading the Evil Overlord List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of COURSE Simon is a fan. Ja'far wishes he'd helped write the List; he would have put in some addenda about not just Heroes, but Crazy Insane Heroes, and particular warnings about the ones with the Hearts of Gold.   
> ....Alan just wants to survive a family night with Fanalis. Good luck, kid....

Callimachus set the old binder on the dining room table of their rented beach cottage; hotel rooms were far too easy to trace. “The original of this is in the Smithsonian. Not that they know what they have, or they’d be deluged in scholars instead of letting it languish in their archives.” He opened the folder to vivid photos of warriors painted on cave walls, decked in finery of white and gold, skin rendered in shades of white and green and blue. “Fortunately, one of the non-archaeologists present when these ruins were seen by Western eyes decided they had artistic merit, and set about capturing every image she could while the so-called historians spent the time they had in Tajikistan arguing over whose dating method was more wrong.”

“Tajikistan?” Phaenomena walked around the table to catch the photos from different angles as he turned pages. “Are you sure?”

“Caves in the Pamir Mountains, not far from the shores of Karakul,” Callimachus nodded. “The Black Lake on the Roof of the World. Haven to birds of all sorts, yet there’s only one species of fish native to it. Which makes rather more sense when you learn it’s an impact crater.”

“And lore about Solomon’s power is often tied up with things hitting Earth at high speeds,” the martial artist murmured. “But Tajikistan?” She shook her head. “Those look like Hindu devas.”

“There is evidence they may predate the devas. Or, indeed, Hinduism itself.” Callimachus let his fingers linger on the odd, flowing script in some of the images; sometimes alone, sometimes alongside a cuneiform-like array of wedge-shapes and dots. “The Proto-Indo-Europeans are a great mystery. We don’t know who they really were; we don’t even positively know when they originated as a tribe. But somewhere over five thousand years ago a culture appeared that revered a sky father, worked magic, and tended to commit heroic poetry at the drop of a bridle. And where we find their languages, we find certain legends.” He pointed to one line of the text he’d committed to memory. “The translations are sketchy, at best. But one of the most reliable claims these are the Djinn Warriors.”

Phaenomena let out a slow breath. “That doesn’t sound like something you could keep locked in a lamp.”

“Indeed not,” Callimachus agreed, turning another page. _Aha_. “And one of these warriors is named _Sinbaddo, Lord of Sindria_.”

Phaenomena stared at faded white, gold, and purple. “Magister, are you saying this is an ancient Sinbad tall tale? In a landlocked country?”

“I am saying there is evidence the tales may have a common origin. And that original myth may in fact be a legend older than we can imagine.” Callimachus traced his fingers above the triptych of images: purple-cloaked king, blue-skinned draconic spirit, and dragon-armored warrior. “You find these trios throughout the paintings. Interpretations vary, but I believe they depict a mortal king, a deva or heavenly power, and the king possessed, drawing on the spirit’s power in battle.”

“Okay,” Phaenomena said warily, as he turned more pages. “So what do ancient Sinbad legends have to do with-”

Callimachus turned to the page he’d sought; gold, white, and red, blond tails of hair flowing in a fiery aura. An image they’d last seen in breathing life, standing atop an indignant dragon, before a black sword brought down a lance of blazing fire.

Phaenomena choked. “No way.”

“This,” Callimachus declared, “may be one of the earliest depictions of the Fire Prince.”

* * *

Malachy glanced at the far corner of the dojo, checking up on Morgan as she showed Aladdin the various protective wear more advanced students needed, and went over exactly why. From the way the magi was turning green, she’d just gotten to groin protection.

_Good. That’ll keep them both busy_.

There was only one way to tackle two edging-toward-bloodily-stubborn Fanalis boys, Malachy knew, eyeing his sons as they finished laying out the biker chains he planned to use for a class demonstration later. Head on. “All right,” he murmured, low enough that even Morgan wouldn’t make it out. “Let’s hear it.” Which all his children knew meant he wanted _straight answers_ , no matter how unpleasant. They could sort out _shoulds_ and _coulds_ later. “Why don’t you like Alan?”

“Um....” Ianatan looked at his older brother. Dougal tried to look just as blandly back.

Malachy raised a waiting brow.

Dougal took a deep breath, and shrugged. “...He has cheesy pickup lines.”

Spoken from the lofty age of eighteen. Though Malachy had to admit that was a valid point. MacLeas tended to use few words, so they appreciated artistry in the use of those they did toss out into the world. If Alan had verbally fumbled just trying to talk to a pretty girl, his boys would be as unimpressed as if he’d fallen on a sharp pointy object.

Still. Being unimpressed was not nearly the same as being _threatening_. Malachy would grant that Alan might have frayed nerves and a hyperactive sense for potential danger, but the boy had felt threatened. And no serious student of his dojo should ever, ever do that unless they intended to mop the floor with someone. “So you decided to loom.”

“Well, yeah.” Ianatan dared to grin. “No wimpy rich kid with bad lines is getting near our Morg!”

Though he looked just a little uncertain after that. Probably recalling fire, and a dragon, and who knew what else.

“Hmm.” Malachy listened through the wall to the chaos going on next door. Too quiet to be the musical havoc of blade-dances; too noisy to be silent sword-drill. Promising. He motioned to Morgan to _stay, help your younger student_ , and crooked a finger.

No idiots, his sons followed.

Three MacLeas peered through the window of Tiburon’s door, unwilling to disrupt a class in progress. Especially since this was as much demonstration as teaching, as Tiburon did his best to pin Alan down and flatten him, while Alan floated in and out of range like a storm-tossed leaf.

Granted, a very tired leaf. But Malachy could glance to either side and note his boys grimacing as they took in the high stance, the relaxed muscles even as the grip was firm; the way Alan used footwork rather than overreach whenever attack or defense would require him to move his hands too far from his center.

_That’s right, boys_ , Malachy thought wryly. _He’s not as strong as a Fanalis. And he knows it. And unlike you two, he’s thought about what that means_. “If he overreaches, he’s dead,” he murmured to his boys. “If he pits muscle against muscle, he’s dead. If he leaves an opening, he’s dead. If he counts on any one hit putting his opponent down... that’s not happening. And he knows it.”

It was over in less than a minute. Tiburon got past a guard Alan hadn’t quite held steady, and nodded at the youngster to stand down. “Good. We’ll take that apart later, when you can see straight.”

Giving his instructor a respectful nod, despite his shakes, Alan wove over to the rest of the class and sat down.

Tiburon kept his eyes on his class, though from the tilt of his head, Malachy knew he knew he was being watched. And probably by whom. “Take note,” the swordsman said simply. “Alan doesn’t mess around. He knows I’m older, more skilled, and stronger. He goes for the killshot. But he also knows he may not get it. So every move he makes, he’s thinking of how _he_ is not going to be the one bleeding out on the floor. His objective is not to die heroically. His objective is to _stop his opponent_. However he has to.” Green eyes flicked across the watching class, grimly amused. “This is not someone you want to threaten.”

To either side of him, Malachy could feel his sons tense.

“Okay.” Tiburon dusted his hands off. “Let’s work on some close-quarters drills. There’s a reason early samurai carried a tanto....”

Malachy reached up, and firmly gripped each son by the ear. “And now that you understand _what you overlooked_ while you were smirking about cheesy lines... Morgan would like to have a few words with you. About the proper behavior of a MacLea toward civilians, and taking care of herself, and letting _her_ decide who’s good enough to meet the family.” His grin might just barely have shown fangs. “On the dojo floor.”

* * *

_It looks like the boys were paying attention_ , Tiburon thought, not cracking a smile at the scuffs and bruises as he sat down with Alan and the others at the MacLea kitchen table. It’d taken him a long time to notice, and an even longer time for Malachy to quietly admit it, but MacLeas would bounce back from that level of damage in a day or less. Unlike the teenager they’d been none-too-subtly threatening. And both boys _knew_ that, damn it. Which was why Tiburon had been quite happy to help deliver that barely-veiled warning this afternoon. Hopefully that would be enough. Malachy’s sons might be young and overflowing with troublesome energy, but they weren’t stupid.

_They have to be smart_ , Tiburon thought, trying not to be grim about it. _And they have to be even smarter now. What Ja’far told me about Fanalis_ -

Honestly, Tiburon was surprised he’d learned as much over the years as he had. Once Malachy had realized that yes, he really was Simon’s friend; yes, he really loved the fighting arts for the practical aspects of messing an attacker up, not just looking pretty for pictures; and no, he had absolutely no intention of mentioning anything about MacLeas to his military associates beyond “good self-defense dojo”....

Well, Malachy hadn’t told him a lot. But he’d let Tiburon watch, and listen, and figure out the truth for himself.

_MacLeas stay out of the military. For a damn good reason_.

Cops, fine. Firefighters, paramedics, Search and Rescue, other places where a sudden burst of strength or speed would be brushed off by people too busy surviving to notice - you could find quiet redheads in all of the above. Not to mention game wardens, park rangers, Alaskan fishermen, and countless other little niches where, so long as the job got done and no one saw stray bodies lying around, no one bothered you. But official armed forces? It was family tradition that was a _very bad idea_. MacLeas would make it work if they got drafted, and they were hell on wheels when it came to guerilla fighting, but between the cranky attitude of _I protect my pride, who the hell are you?_ and the temptation for any officer to keep throwing them at the enemy, because they were just _so good_ at it....

Morgan’s mother had been in the National Guard, and died for it. Her father had very neatly straightened out his affairs, signed over her guardianship to Malachy and Shionne, and disappeared somewhere in northwest Pakistan. Tiburon hadn’t been able to learn much, it’d been years over by the time he knew to ask, but the few scraps he had picked up on the shadowy grapevine said there was one vicious little tribe that didn’t exist anymore.

_And now some of the Fanalis can break rocks just by stamping hard_ , Tiburon reflected. _Hate to say it, but Simon’s right. We need to train everybody who has any knack for magic and fighting, just to give the rest of us cover when someone else slips_.

Because human nature being what it was, sooner or later _someone_ would be an idiot. Though if it really was someone riding a carpet over the Washington Monument, Simon would never let them forget it.

_Just don’t let it be our people who are the idiots_ , Tiburon prayed. _Actors, film, special effects - Simon has a good plan. Let’s stick to it_.

From Malachy’s calm expression as he helped Shionne bring fried fish and greens to the table, he thought his boys had learned their lesson. For now.

_Let’s hope so_ , Tiburon thought, bowing his head as the MacLeas said grace. It wasn’t a habit he’d grown up with, but years of working with people who made family traditions of putting their lives on the line had gotten him used to it. _I wouldn’t call those two friendly, yet. But at least they don’t look like they’re a heartbeat from catching Alan in a dark alley_.

“Thank you for the fish.” Shionne smiled at him. A compact, willowy redhead who looked barely ten years older than her adopted daughter, she handed around dinner with a grace and gentle civility that could make a man forget she could break an enemy’s neck with one swift yank. If she weren’t happily married, Tiburon would have asked her on a date years ago.

But she was, and he’d always seen how quietly happy the pair were together, and there was absolutely no substitute for having people you could _trust_ when you felt like Hell had backed a steamroller over you. Twice. So Tiburon just smiled, bar-flirting manners left packed away like an unwanted dress shirt. “Least I could do, bringing half a hungry horde down on you. Aladdin? Breathe between bites.”

“Aw,” Aladdin chomped, “s’good-”

The blade of Shionne’s hand thumped gently down on the magi’s forehead. “Manners.”

“....Ow.” Teary blue eyes blinked up at her. “Yes, ma’am.”

_No problems with appetite there_ , Tiburon decided, before taking a longer look at his apprentice swordsman. Alan wasn’t facedown in his plate, but he was eating with the slow, deliberate motions of someone all too aware they were likely to stab themselves with a careless fork.

_He’s done this before. Been this exhausted before. Often enough to know how badly he could slip_.

Which raised all kinds of questions, and Tiburon wasn’t quite sure how to go about getting the answers. Yet.

_Especially since he’s just as rattled as I am_ , Tiburon reflected. _Sparring helped, but getting caught in those chains, even if you could break free - it wasn’t as bad as facing down a bullet. But close_.

Simon hadn’t even tried to make his students finish a regular day of classes. He’d called everyone into the auditorium, teachers and students alike, and given them the facts straight between the eyes.

“Officially, we had an arson attack. Unofficially, we had an arson attack, a magical attack, and a dragon.”

That had pretty much done in the physics teacher. Malachy had had to lean in and frown at the man to make Mr. Stafford stop trying to climb under his seat.

“The alchemist who attacked us goes by the name of Callimachus. Note, people, the Greek _nom de guerre_. This man has obviously never read the Evil Overlord List.”

Ah, Simon. You had to either love the man, or try to kill him. Possibly both.

“You should also note his spell didn’t hit people who’ve done well in the tower as hard as it hit everyone else. There’s a reason for that, but it won’t make any sense unless you’re willing to accept that the normal laws of physics are missing a few pieces.”

At that, even Malachy’s frown couldn’t keep Stafford from paling.

“Over this coming week we’ll see which of you would benefit from this additional and sometimes violent course of study, and which of you shouldn’t be allowed near it with a ten-meter cattle prod. I expect some of you, or your parents, will want to transfer somewhere else. Anywhere else. I’m not going to force anyone to stay. But if you want to tough it out, if you want to see the impossible in life as well as film, even if you’re just curious about what happened today - we will find some way you can do this. There is no such thing as someone who can’t learn to handle danger. Only someone who _won’t_.

“We need costumers, effects people, cameramen. We need people in the bio lab willing to take apart giant crabs, and artists - computer and pencil, both - to sketch them from gills to claws, so when it comes time to edit in post we all know what monsters should look like. Composers, stuntmen, actors - we’re going to need all of you.

“I want a five-paragraph essay from each of you on what struck you the most about today. What scared you? What excited you? What did you want to know more about? What would you want to have, if something like this happened again? What would you want to do?” Simon had paused, then, purple-dyed brow arched with regal humor. “ _Aaaugh_ , while a valid and concise comment, does not count as part of your essay. No, not even if you use it to fill a whole page.”

That got a laugh from the students. Even a few of the teachers; though Tiburon planned to keep a careful eye on them. History said the most unassuming people could be the ones who adapted most easily to a suddenly lethal environment. He just hoped a fair number of the teachers Simon had hired were as flexible as those World War II-era spies of yore.

Then again, these teachers had been working for _Simon_. Most of the less flexible types had left years ago.

“I don’t expect Callimachus to be back,” Simon had reflected. “He wasted a lot of resources for very little gain, and so far he hasn’t been stupid. We’ve found remnants of his nasty little trap, and if Mr. Stafford has been so kind as to mention quantum entanglement and spooky action at a distance, you might be able to guess that we can _use_ that, if he dares to breach the grounds again. So if he does come back, I intend to deal with him. Outside of that - assume you should read the next chapter in all classes missed due to hot firemen!”

Sitting at Malachy’s table now, with people who knew the world could be this incredible, Tiburon felt very, very lucky.

“Thinking?” Malachy asked, as people made their way through the first buttery round of cornmeal-fried catfish and bitter greens.

“We’re going to be leaning on Simon’s ability to keep people moving like never before,” Tiburon admitted. “What happened today was scary even for me, and I knew all of it was possible. Once more of the students have time to think, we’ll have a lot of shaken-up people.” He glanced at Alan. “Not just because it was frightening. Parts of it were wonderful. Happiness can shake you just as badly as terror.” Tiburon hadn’t encountered anything as frightening as the days he knew one of his under the table students was about to deploy after just becoming a father. They were overwhelmed, overjoyed - and all too likely, sleep-deprived. They _made mistakes_.

If he were a praying man, he’d pray every time.

“We were attacked by an alchemist who wanted to kill us, a dragon who wanted to eat us, and who knows where Phaenomena was, maybe she’s still hiding out in a janitor’s closet waiting for someone to walk by alone, I could just _see_ Dash trying to tackle her before she popped his jaw to break his spine-” Alan cut himself off. “Just what about this afternoon was _happy?_ ”

_Urk_. Tiburon hid a frown, suddenly tense.

“We won,” Aladdin said firmly.

“And you got to punch a dragon in the nose,” Morgan smiled.

“Lucky,” Dougal muttered under his breath.

“Guys.” Alan seemed to find the flower pattern on his plate incredibly interesting. “That was not luck. Luck is a quarter on the sidewalk, or getting the last good peaches in the discard pile before the fruit stand tosses stuff for the day, or- Gah. That was _temporary insanity_.”

Which was not the thing to say in a household full of MacLeas. Tiburon took a deep breath, ready to make their excuses and go if their hosts felt offended.

Though he hoped they didn’t. Malachy and Shionne did teach more ordinary people, after all. And if it weren’t for Simon and his breezy confidence that Hancock _could_ handle this threat, a lot of the students would be hiding under their beds.

Alan kept his gaze down as the silence stretched out. “That- that _thing_ with the dragon. I don’t know what you saw. But from the inside? I know sanity. And that wasn’t it.” Hands gripped his shirt cuffs, knuckles pale. “Can we talk about something else? Like how to make sure we don’t get another dragon out of the tower? Baal’s got a pretty loose definition of _safe_.” He slipped a folded piece of paper out of a pocket, flattened it on the tablecloth. “I’m trying to figure it out, but there’s too many variables. Did we stay in the safe zone too long? Did Kwan just happen to run in the wrong place at the wrong time? Or did we run into... a level imbalance, I guess? A bunch of people who can fight the monsters with a bunch of people who don’t know how yet, and the random encounter table pulled out the stops?” He glanced around the table. “Any ideas?”

_Fighting the dragon wasn’t sane_. Tiburon’s eyes narrowed. There had to be more to it than that. Alan had been all too willing to fight dragons with them when he _knew_ there was a good chance no one would make it out alive. Why was it different now, when he’d apparently been more than capable of taking on one dragon by himself and saving _everyone_ -

_My god. Stage fright_.

Well, Simon would probably call it that. Making it seem simple, something to just face down and get over with, with a grin and a hand clapped on the poor soul’s shoulder. And because it was Simon, that might even work. For most people.

_But Alan lives by being invisible_ , Tiburon thought. _So long as he’s focused on_ me, _he can fight in class. The moment he realizes people are watching him? He chokes. He stumbles. He_ freezes. _If I aim to stick him somewhere_ vital, _he tries to pull out of it and keep fighting. Otherwise - he just takes the hit_.

So Aladdin had taken someone who _knew_ he might freeze in the face of danger, and tossed him at a dragon, confident he could save everyone.

_He was right. But he might as well have thrown Alan into a buzzsaw_. Tiburon winced. _And given Fanalis teenage boys are all “mighty hunter, rawr,” Alan’s just slipped back into “we are not exactly impressed” territory. Which will not help. No wonder he keeps trying to sneak off out of sight, not that a bunch of tiger-nosy Fanalis are going to let anyone do that.... I need to talk to Aladdin, later. Right now, definitely change the subject_. “Time’s an interesting question,” the swordsman noted. “I checked with Ja’far; you thought you were in there an hour, almost? Outside, it wasn’t even twenty minutes.”

“There was a time difference the night we rescued Simon, as well,” Malachy observed. “Longer inside than outside. Consistent?”

“It would make picnics much more convenient, if that’s true,” Shionne mused. “And classes inside the tower, as well.”

Tiburon watched out of the corner of his eye as Alan took a relieved breath, and considered his options. _We won, the bad guys lost. For Aladdin and Morgan, it’s that simple. For Alan - he’s acting like some of my students after the first time they_ had _to knife someone. Mental disconnect; from his body, from everyone around him. Damn it, Ja’far; I shouldn’t have brought him here, I should have tossed him to you and Simon. You understand, “I just did something horrible-”_

_And that makes no sense. What did he do that’s making him freeze like this?_

Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to get an answer with two friends Alan felt he had to _protect_ hanging on every word.

_Hmm. I did say we needed to go over that block_....

* * *

“Okay.” Tiburon disengaged in a _shing_ of steel. “That is just not going to work until you have a little more muscle. Focus less on blocking, more on deflecting.”

Catching his breath, Alan just nodded, and wondered if he should drop in his tracks right here in the salle. “Could’ve done this in the backyard-”

“What, and mix swords with a MacLea pool party? Not a chance.” Tiburon shook his head. “Aladdin’s not exhausted. Let _him_ wipe himself out keeping up with a bunch of crazy redheads. Besides, I needed to pick up a few things. Few more weapons, spare phone - I could _mangle_ Ja’far for not warning us about everything that comes with increased magoi. I’ve killed plenty of phones over the years in my line of work, but today’s the first time I broke one with my bare hands.” He frowned. “Which explains a lot about Simon’s weirder hand-to-hand tricks.... Anyway. Better to work on tricky stuff here, where there are less nosy redheads. And I need a little quiet time to think before we all turn in.” The swordsman headed to one of the smaller cabinets at the side of the room, a faint scent of wax and honey wafting out as he opened it.

_Candles_. Alan glanced sideways at the man as Tiburon lit a pale wax taper, and offered him another and matches. “Some kind of meditation?”  

“We can’t all go _ooommmm_ to the crunch of someone’s jaw,” Tiburon shrugged. “I love the family, but sometimes they’re a little too close. Want to give it a try?”

Given Alan had been trying all afternoon to get behind a locked door with just himself and a lighter... yeah. This could work.

_I don’t want to do this. I really don’t._

_But we’re going to be heading back in the dungeon, and odds are there will be another dragon. So - start with something small. Something that’s not going to blow up in my face._

_Something that won’t kill people if I get it wrong_.

He sat cross-legged, eyeing the tiny flame. Braced himself, and gripped the multitool in his right hand.

_Draw the magoi from the flame_.

It was oddly harder than the geyser, or the dragon. Those had been do or die - and Alan had a feeling Amon wasn’t interested in him dying. So the nudge inside his head had been stronger, obvious; reach for the energy _this_ way. A candleflame? He could almost hear the Djinn snort in disdain.

Alan narrowed his eyes, and tried to poke that presence-not-a-presence right back. _Stop being a pompous jerk, damn it. I’m a human being, not somebody with Great Cosmic Powers. I need to start with something I can handle!_

Silence.

_...Fine. Be that way. You don’t want to help? Then just stay quiet and let me_ try.

Alan breathed in, and tried to grip that same feeling he’d had with the geyser. Heat that didn’t hurt, spiraling in-

The candle poofed out.

_Okay_. Alan sighed, and lit another match to get the candle going again. _Take two_.

He wasn’t sure how long it took him to finally grasp that fragile thread of power without breaking it; like trying to reel in spiderweb. Half the candle was burned down, there was a pile of spent matches by his hand, and he could _feel_ Tiburon’s stare.

But it didn’t matter, because clumsy and halting as it was, he had that sense now.

_That’s the flame. That’s the pattern to pull on it. And_.... Alan sat up, watching that silken shimmer of ruby and topaz spin into the Seal. _Huh. Not so tired anymore_.

Tiburon waited until the glimmer winked out. “So... what is that, exactly?”

“Amon’s a Djinn of fire,” Alan stated. “According to Aladdin, mostly you fuel a Djinn with your own magoi. But if there’s a lot of their element around, you can use that instead. The geyser didn’t hurt me ‘cause Amon sucked the heat out. And when the dragon breathed on me....”

“Like pouring gasoline on a fire,” Tiburon reflected.

“Oh, you have no idea how much,” Alan shuddered.

Tiburon nodded, green eyes waiting. “So tell me.”

_Oh god. I can’t, I_ \- Alan scrubbed at his eyes, and tried not to shake. _I need help_.

“Amon....” Alan had to stop, and try to unclench his fingers from steel. “Amon’s not just in here.” He raised his hand, and tapped the side of his head. “I think - part of him’s in here, too.”

Tiburon settled down beside him, eyeing that quiet Seal. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I can _feel_ him. Nudging me. Any time there’s fire.” Alan stared at the flame. “This - it’s tiny, he doesn’t pay much attention. It’s just me trying to pull on it. The dragon? He - I - _that wasn’t me_.”

Tiburon muttered something under his breath that sounded like he suspected Amon’s ancestors of consorting with scorpions. “That thing can take you over?”

“Not exactly,” Alan admitted. “I could have stopped. But - it made things _shift_. In my head. One minute I was facing something that wanted to make us crispy fries. Next minute? I was _trying not to hurt it_.” He looked up, hoping somebody could understand how awful this was. “It was still trying to kill us. But I wasn’t thinking about that, or Aladdin, or Morgan, or _anybody_. All I was thinking was- god. It was, blink, _dragon_. Next blink? Aww, poor big confused burny lizard, maybe it could hurt me if I got careless, let’s handle idiot alchemist first and then bop it on the nose.”

The swordsman whistled.

“I mean, I still knew it was a dragon, but... it was like being a forest fire,” Alan got out, trying to find the right words for that sense of utter confidence. “Everything was just - heat, and power, and _safe_. I was standing on the damn thing, and I _wasn’t afraid_.” He swallowed hard. “I could’ve gotten everybody killed!”

Tiburon was quiet a long moment. “Are you always afraid in a fight?”

“Oh man yeah,” Alan said in a rush. “Always. I hate fighting. I’d rather run. Or talk my way out. Or just not be there, if I know trouble’s in the area. Fighting is....” He shook his head. “If you have to fight, you weren’t smart enough to stay out of it.”

“But you fought to protect Aladdin,” Tiburon pointed out. “And you went into the tower after Simon and Ja’far.”

“Somebody had to.” Alan sighed, and rubbed at a headache. “I have to fight. I know that. Aladdin needs help. All of you need one more person who kind-of sort-of knows how to fight monsters. And I kicked Callimachus and Phaenomena right in the ego, and nobody just lets that walk. I _have_ to fight.” He shivered. “But then there’s magic and dragons and- you know how when you’re dreaming, everything makes sense while it’s happening? No matter how crazy it is? This whole week’s been like that. Except I feel like I wake up and _the dream’s still happening_. One of these days I’m going to choke up. I always do. And if that gets me hurt, fine, I can live with that - but what if I’d flipped out today? Everybody would have died!”

“Hmm.” Tiburon bent his head, thinking-

Reached out, and flicked him in the forehead.

“Ow!” Alan rubbed the stinging spot, startled. _So is that a MacLea thing, or did Morgan get it from him?_ “What was that for?”

“You,” Tiburon said dryly, “are _not_ responsible for the whole school and all of your classmates. That’s Simon’s responsibility. God help us.”

“But-”

“We weren’t prepared for a dragon to get out of the tower,” Tiburon allowed. “We’re going to have to fix that. Which is not your responsibility _either_.” He paused. “Though I’d appreciate the help. As your teacher, and as one swordsman floundering out of his depth to another.”

Alan blinked. “But... you’re....”

“I’m a lot more used to _violence_ ,” Tiburon said practically. “And to adrenaline. I can tell you right now part of your problem isn’t magic. It’s that your brain has tight-wired in, _battle-rush equals pain_.” Wiry arms crossed. “Based on what you said about your family... I’m going to guess you got jumped as a kid. A lot.”

Alan glanced aside. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“I don’t care if it was. Or wasn’t,” the swordsman said bluntly. “Learn to forget it. I am going to teach you to fight, and _win_.” He hesitated, and rubbed the back of his neck. “And you weren’t the only one who felt things go a little weird today. I don’t think any of the rest of us were up to punching out dragons, but after it was gone... well, I have to admit I was pouting. No dragon to fight!” He shrugged, almost sheepish. “Then I looked for a good wall to bang my head against, because _what_. Seriously.”

_It’s not just me?_ Alan blinked, feeling some of the adrenaline finally seep out of his nerves. _It’s not just me. Ouch_.

“And Simon....” Tiburon whistled, low and long. “If Callimachus has the sense of self-preservation Mother Nature gave a squirrel, he won’t come anywhere _near_ Simon. Because Simon will kill him.”

Alan stared, feeling his heart thud in his chest.

“I know Simon,” Tiburon stated. “He’s one of the good guys. He’s not always one of the nice guys, there’s a vicious twisty sense of humor under that purple hair - but he’s a _peaceful_ guy. Wouldn’t hurt a fly, unless that fly stung one of his friends.” The swordsman shook his head. “Or he was a peaceful guy. He’s not anymore. And I think it’s scaring him almost as much as it scares you. Only he’s had years improvising when a script goes to hell. And he has Ja’far.” Tiburon clasped his hands together, obviously thinking. “I’ve asked Ja’far to help me get those past memories back.”

_Erk_. “Are you crazy?” Alan blurted out. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Because Aladdin knows magic, but he doesn’t know us, or our world,” Tiburon replied. “Ja’far knows both, but he can’t be everywhere at once. It’s not fair to load him down with making sure all of us don’t kill each other. Or get someone else killed.” His voice dropped. “And he’s my friend, and he’s _lonely_ , and I never knew how much it was killing him. I’m not leaving him alone anymore.” A wink, and the serious look morphed into the daredevil swordsman. “Plus, he says that life might know a few tricks about shortswords that I don’t. And trust me, a smart martial artist cribs from _anyone_.”

“I dunno,” Alan said, half under his breath. Dragging up a life that wasn’t the you of _now_ \- it still unsettled him. “Wouldn’t that be plagiarism?”

“Get outta here....” Tiburon’s hand ruffled his hair. “You know, to you and me, today looked crazy. But Ja’far and Aladdin? They were right in the groove. They’ve _seen_ this before. And they knew they’d come out on top. Maybe I’m not a magician, and I’m still having trouble with yes, okay, _dragons_ \- but I’ve seen that _reaction_. In martial arts, and backstreet brawls, and-” He hesitated. “Someday, maybe I can give you some details. Let’s just say there have been times I was a rookie working with a combat team who’d been under serious fire. There were things that looked crazy, but that was because I didn’t know enough to know how it _wasn’t_.”

_Like Maria and her salt and chili powder_ , Alan reflected. Sister Thomasina had confiscated the stuff more than once, because good children of the Church didn’t do pagan cleansings. Alan had only needed one outbreak of fires in the wastebaskets to slip bottles out of the spice rack and sneak them to her. Some of the little ones just needed negative energy warded off so they could sleep, much less behave like good dutiful churchgoing illegal aliens.

And then he’d seen Maria set off a spark _on purpose_ , because where she’d come from matches cost money, and if you needed fire you _really_ needed fire, and... whoof. He’d never felt the same way about flames after that.

_And now I can set off sparks_ , Alan realized. _With Amon, at least, I’m not a magician. And I’m definitely not born to be a_ paq’o, _I’d really rather not get hit by lightning even once_ -

If Tiburon hadn’t been _right there_ , he’d have smacked himself on the forehead.

_I am an_ idiot. _Maria has_ sparks. _Maybe lightning, maybe fire, but it’s magic!_

Which meant he had to get a grip on himself and deal with the situation, Amon and magic and everything. Because this could be _help_.

_Maria and her kids - it’s not superstition. It’s not devils, or poltergeists, or crazy psychic powers. They have a little bit of magic and_ no one to teach them.

Which, unfortunately, wasn’t going to cut any ice as a reason for a bunch of illegal kids to be seeking asylum.

_No, damn it, don’t give up that easy. Just because_ I _don’t know a way it could work, doesn’t mean it_ couldn’t.

But moving too fast could be just as dangerous as not moving at all. Last time he’d checked his email, Maria was okay. So it’d be better to sit tight, wait, and _learn_. Until he knew enough that he could give Ja’far and Simon a good reason to put their necks on the line with Immigration. Because Maria wouldn’t leave the younger kids, and getting a whole small gang of Guatemalans legit status was going to take serious paperwork. And probably bribes, and that didn’t even get into arm-twisting.

_And if they are magicians - oh, hell. I can’t lead Callimachus to them. Got to deal with him, first_. “What are we going to do about Callimachus?” Alan held up empty hands before Tiburon could answer. “I know, I know - not my _responsibility_. But I want to help.”

“Ja’far’s planning to use the fragments we found to set up some kind of magical tripwires,” Tiburon obliged. “And if he can, an early-warning system for the three of you. I think he’ll need to rope Aladdin in for heavyweight power, though. And speaking of....” His grin was almost as sharp as Malachy’s, and green eyes danced with mischief. “We really should figure the fiery stuff out before it can happen again. Want to help me corral a cagey Magi into telling us just what you did with that dragon?”

* * *

“What happened with the dragon?” Still damp from the pool and a shower, Aladdin perched on the air mattress Uncle Malachy had set up in Morgan’s room. “That’s easy. Well,” he backtracked, squeezing a little more water out of his braid, “maybe it’s more simple than easy... that was a Full Equip. Really cool. I thought you’d have to start with a partial Equip, but wow, dragonfire....”

Morgan sat on her bed, and didn’t quite glare at him. Scent, posture, too-innocent smile; Aladdin was being just a little shifty, and they all knew it. Alan was vibrating with it, fingers twitching toward her computer as if he wanted to grab the Internet and strangle it into giving up some Magi-thumping ideas. Tiburon looked calmer as he leaned against her doorframe, but Morgan could sense exactly how close his hand was to his sword. Even if he only meant to thump Aladdin over the head with the hilt.

“An Equip lets you bring out more of your Djinn’s power,” Aladdin went on. “Amon’s a Djinn of fire, so you can use your Metal Vessel to create fire, and control it. But if you want to do more than that you need an Equip. A partial Equip lets you use Amon’s weapon; though you and Sharrkan really hated that sometimes, a big slashing sword doesn’t fit your fighting at _all_. So you had to work something different out. A Full Equip,” Aladdin shrugged. “That’s when a king channels his Djinn through his magoi, and they act as one.”

Morgan sat up straight, chilled. _What?_

Green eyes narrowed, as Tiburon’s usual sense of amused potential violence coiled into rattlesnake-menace. “So.” His glance flicked to his student. “You’re not crazy.”

Pale, Alan could only shake his head.

Aladdin was glancing between them, worried. “That’s why Amon has to use something important to you for his Metal Vessel. So both of you can connect to it... what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Alan blurted out. “There’s someone else _in my head_ , and you’re asking me what’s wrong?”

“Yes?” Aladdin said uncertainly. “What’s the big deal? A king’s never responsible for just himself.”

“What’s the big deal?” Morgan braced her hands on her covers, ready to spring. A scent like fire, that odd dusting of gold hairs; Alan was _different_ now. And Aladdin hadn’t warned him? “People don’t have other things in their head!”

Alan’s trembling stopped.

“First off,” he said, very quietly, “Amon’s a person, Morgan, not a thing. He might be a very scary person who isn’t human. But he’s a person.” Alan gave Aladdin a level look. “Second - I get that I was probably doomed from the moment Callimachus broke you out and Amon decided he was going to come to me, instead of stick to a dungeon. You didn’t have any say in that. But you should have told me Amon wasn’t just in the Seal. And you are going to tell Simon _everything you know about it_ before anyone goes near Baal again.” He shook his head. “Our principal’s on the weird side as it is. Getting something else stuck in his head? I don’t know if that’d be too much.”

“But he was _fine_ last time,” Aladdin insisted, “and Baal wouldn’t-”

“We’re not the same people as last time,” Tiburon cut him off. “Even Ja’far says he’s not. And Simon’s our friend. Tell him.”

“...I guess I can.” Aladdin wrapped his arms around himself. “No one else ever _complained_ about having a Djinn.”

“Aladdin, it’s not....” Alan sighed, and walked over to put his hands on the magi’s shoulders. “I’m not mad at you.”

Morgan drew back a hair, startled. _He’s telling the truth_.

“I just - I thought I was going _crazy_ ,” Alan got out, all in a rush. “And a crazy guy who can throw fire around, just by wanting to? Somebody could get hurt.” He looked down into blue eyes, pleading. “You could have been hurt. Or Morgan. Or - god. Half this town.”

“Oh,” Aladdin said softly. “But you wouldn’t. I know you. You were always careful with Amon’s fire. _Always_. Even when we were fighting Black Djinn, and you had to use fire close enough to people it singed their eyebrows off - that’s all you did. People got hot, and they got scared. They didn’t get burned.” He reached up, and gave Alan’s hand a friendly squeeze. “But if you want the truth.... Um.”

Still holding on, Alan gave him a sidelong look.

“It’d - kind of be more than half the town, if you ever really had to do something like that,” Aladdin admitted, face a little red. “You don’t have the magoi to summon up a whole Extreme Magic - not right now, not without another dragon or maybe a volcano - but when you do... yeah. You could melt the whole peninsula this town is on. If you had to.”

Three sets of eyes stared at Aladdin.

He turned a little redder. “You asked?”

“Thanks,” Alan said, stunned. “I think.”

Aladdin let go. “I didn’t think Amon would scare you,” he said thoughtfully. “You love fire. I thought you’d be more upset about the earrings.”

Alan blinked, and took a startled step back. “Earrings?”

“I mean, besides Uncle Simon, and Malachy in the dungeon, I don’t think I’ve seen any guys wearing earrings here,” Aladdin went on. “It’s kind of _weird_.”

“What earrings?” Alan persisted.

“I asked around.” Morgan gave him a quiet, knowing look. “There are pictures.”

Gold eyes went wide. _“Pictures?”_

Morgan heard familiar footsteps in the hall, and tried not to smirk at Tiburon. “Some men still wear earrings,” she informed Aladdin. “Everyone in my family does. Even Uncle Malachy. We just tend to wear tan studs when it’s not a party, or a war sweeping through. So idiots don’t try to rip them from our ears.”

And drat, Aunt Shionne was right that she still had to work on subtle, because Tiburon was eyeing her bedroom window even as he edged toward the door.

_Too late_.

Malachy loomed in the doorway, giving the swordsman an up-and-down look. “You’re planning to do something reckless for Ja’far.”

“Damn MacLea ears,” Tiburon muttered. “Look, that’s my business-”

“It is,” Malachy nodded. “But Simon told us it messed Ja’far up, because his family didn’t have his back.”

“Not going to be a problem.” Tiburon shrugged, gaze shadowed. “My family’s already not on speaking terms with me-”

“You’re wrong,” Malachy stated, as Shionne and her sons slipped into view, a small pride of redheaded backup. “Your family’s going to be behind you. All the way.”

“...Wait,” Tiburon said warily. “Wait, wait, wait; Malachy, Shionne, I know you guys like me, I really don’t _need_ more proof - Malachy!”

“I’ll be back,” Morgan tossed over her shoulder to the two stunned boys, falling in behind the rest of her family as her aunt and uncle carried the struggling swordsman off. “This won’t take long.” _I hope_.

Uncle Malachy had let go by the time she slipped into the kitchen after everyone, hands up and empty. “If you don’t want to be part of the clan, that’s your call. MacLeas have long memories for what happens when you force someone into anything.”

“But we do like you, Tiburon,” Aunt Shionne stepped in. “Edged weapons and all. We’d be proud to have you with us at the next family reunion.”

“You mean the next quietly hushed up outbreak of mayhem?” But Tiburon looked a little less ready to run for the door. “Even if you don’t plan to file legal paperwork for this... you know the kind of people I train. You don’t need their attention.”

“We’re next door,” Malachy said dryly. “We already have their attention. Just like Simon does.”

“Which means the dumb ones can’t figure us out,” Shionne agreed. “The smart ones realize bringing us up to their higher-ups will get them nothing. Leaving us alone means they might have a number to call in the middle of the night, when regular channels can’t do anything and people are about to die.”

Tiburon ran nervous fingers through his hair. “But you can’t be sure.”

“Dragon,” Dougal pointed out. “Who can be sure of anything, huh? But we are sure about this.”

“We miss having an uncle,” Ianatan said, more quietly. “Sometimes, you know, you want to talk to family but you don’t want to talk to Dad....”

Malachy looked amused. “Teenagers.”

“Hey!” his sons protested as one.

Eyes shadowed, Tiburon looked at Morgan. “And what do you think?”

_Me?_ Morgan blinked, suddenly feeling tears. “I know... we live dangerous lives. We can lose people. And we don’t want to lose _you_.” She took a deep breath, and gazed at him with pleading kitten eyes. “We need you to be okay.”

“Oh.” Tiburon leaned a hand on the counter, more shaken than she’d ever seen him. “So... does anybody have ideas for how I explain this to my classes? Because they’re going to notice.”

Malachy grinned.

* * *

Aladdin typed out the number Tiburon had given him on the flat buttons, then listened to the strange little flippy thing everyone called a phone, beeps and a buzzing ring and a sort of click before a familiar, “Hello?”

“Ja’far!” He bounced on the back porch swing, enjoying the faint shimmers of streetlights cast back by the pool. “Isn’t this neat?”

“...Aladdin?” Ja’far said uncertainly. “You’re on the phone?”

“It’s so cool!” Aladdin grinned. “You can talk to anyone and nobody needs to use magoi - it’s like the Eye of Rukh! Only I can’t see you. Though Alan says there’s something called Skype where you can, but that’s a lot more complicated to set up-”

“ _Why_ are you on the phone?” Ja’far asked. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong,” Aladdin shrugged. “Though I am kind of listening to the rukh for sneaky Fanalis, so Alan doesn’t worry that someone’s going to drag him off to pierce his ears.” He craned his head toward the house. “Tiburon yelped a little. Or maybe a lot....”

“They took Tiburon in as an adult? That’s- wait, modern Fanalis, I need to ask Malachy before I make any assumptions.” Ja’far paused, as if gathering himself to be patient. “But you didn’t call about that.”

“...I guess not.” Aladdin took a deep breath. “Alan says we ought to tell Simon about... well, about what happens in a Full Equip.”

Silence.

“Okay, why do people think that’s so weird?” Aladdin demanded. “Why would anyone be scared of having a Djinn?”

“You would ask the hard ones.” Ja’far sighed. “I should have thought about that- ow, Simon, _quit that_ , I need to take notes!”

“Uncle Sinbad’s there?” That was a relief. Kind of. Aladdin still remembered how sneaky and underhanded Sinbad had been. So far Simon wasn’t that underhanded... but sneaky, yes. Which meant he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about the way Simon _wanted_ Alan as his student. He didn’t think it was anything bad, but - he worried. Just a little.

“Make paper airplanes out of the junk mail,” Ja’far grumbled, “not my-” _Shing_. “Yes, I’m serious. This is a real problem, and you can listen, just let me _think_.”

“Aww,” Simon sighed in the background.

“One thing comes to mind first,” Ja’far said briskly. “Baal’s tower is the first this world has seen.”

“Okay?” Aladdin said, uncertain. He couldn’t read Ja’far’s rukh through a phone.

“By the time you turned up near Qishan, Djinn had been loose in the world for _fourteen years_ ,” Ja’far went on. “I don’t know what magi is responsible for Baal, I _know_ it wasn’t you, but if I catch him.... Aladdin. People back then _knew_ that world-shaking power existed. All the leaders of the Seven Seas Alliance had Djinn. The leaders of Reim. The leaders of the Kou Empire. Balbadd was one of the places that didn’t - and you saw what happened to them.”

Yeah. He had. It’d been _awful_.

“Right now, the only people who have seen a Metal Vessel User in Full Equip were at your school,” Ja’far stated. “Think of how scared people were of just the dragon.” He paused. “Now think of how they might feel once they realize Alan could treat it like a bad puppy.”

.... _Oh_.

“Better yet,” Ja’far went on, “think how you felt, watching Kouen fight the Medium.”

_Oh_.

_Terrified and sick_ , were the feelings that jumped to mind. Because they needed Kouen, they _needed_ all Astaroth’s power to stop Al-Thamen from destroying the world-

But this was the man who’d conquered Balbadd, and tried to conquer Magnostadt, and planned to conquer the _entire world_ to get his way. And maybe he could be talked out of it, just maybe - but if he couldn’t then the only one with the power to stop him was Sinbad, and Aladdin had found out later just how much of a mess that was going to be. He was still young, and learning from Ugo hadn’t taught him as much about people as he’d thought, but he’d spent a few very frantic years getting a crash course in how people with power _worked_.

_And it wasn’t just me_. Aladdin tried to catch his breath, feeling like the porch was suddenly too small. Morgan and Uncle Malachy wouldn’t like it if he shattered the roof just for some air. _Alibaba_ \- everybody _ran over Alibaba, or tried to use him, or just smashed their way through his people when he was trying to_ protect _them. If Alan’s remembering bits of that_....

“Aladdin?”

“He’d never hurt anyone,” Aladdin got out. And thumped himself on the forehead, below his jewel. “That makes it worse, doesn’t it?”

“The situation isn’t quite as bad as it might be,” Ja’far reflected. “First - this is Simon’s school. Everyone _expects_ special effects. A teenager able to command fire with a blazing sword? No one’s going to believe that without a lot of evidence. Second... Alan should have history books. Read them. People in this country tend to be in favor of leaving each other alone so long as nothing gets blown up.” His voice caught. “But bringing back magoi into this world, bringing back enough to fuel _Djinn_ \- if anyone had asked me, I would have said it was a _bad idea_. I know the people who’ve been touched by it so far; I know how much they care about those they love. Or even innocent bystanders. Which makes it worse. Sooner or later we’ll be caught using magic. And then? Unless we’re very, very lucky, we’ll end up like a kinder version of Magnostadt: we might not condemn those who don’t use magoi, but we might have to either flee or throw them out in pure self-defense. And this isn’t like the old world, where Sinbad could sail off to uncharted islands and found a whole new nation. There’s nowhere else to _go_.”

There was a lump in Aladdin’s throat. “I’m-”

“Ja’far,” Simon’s voice broke in, “if he says he’s sorry, zap him through the phone for me.”

Ja’far groaned. “I don’t have a spell that will do that.”

“Yet,” Simon said cheerfully.

“...You are far too optimistic.”

“I’m told it’s part of my charm,” Simon mused. “That, or bound to drag me into the ninth circle of Hell. Hard to say.” He _hmph_ ed. “What my sharp and pointy friend here isn’t saying is that if anyone’s likely to slip, it’s him.”

“Simon, I-”

“You may have been an assassin in that world, but you’re a _Life Mage_ in this one,” Simon cut off his protest. “If someone were dying in front of you, you would do something. And I’d help.” Fingers tapped on something harder than wood. “Aladdin. This is a serious situation, and we should all be worried. But if we act as if we expect the worst from the people around us, we’ll get it. I think....”

Almost holding his breath, Aladdin waited.

“I think we need to brazen it out, whatever happens,” Simon said at last. “In the meantime, we need to act as though everything we do is normal. Including breaking rocks with our bare toes, levitating without wires, and setting the sky on fire. If we build up a reputation as, _that’s Hancock High, everyone’s weird there_ \- then no one will notice when we do something truly bizarre.”

“Like the Maharagan.” Aladdin leaned back in the swing, relieved. “Don’t make the monsters scary. Make them part of a party.”

“Something like that?” Simon cleared his throat. “Ja’far. I didn’t just agree to something likely to get my students killed, did I?”

“No more than usual.” There was the faintest of smiles in Ja’far’s voice. “We won’t have a proper Maharagan unless the Gulf starts sprouting sea monsters-”

“Sea monsters?” Simon pounced.

“-But the idea is similar,” Ja’far went on; with a quiet _thump_ , as if he’d just planted a hand against someone’s face to pry them off. “Make magic a marvel, not a thing to fear.”

“Because it is!” Aladdin insisted. “If I could just....”

“What is it?” Ja’far asked.

Aladdin kicked bare toes against the porch, shooing off hungry mosquitoes. “I just thought... that’ll help keep other people from getting scared of us. But Alan’s scared of Amon-” No. No, that didn’t seem right. “I think Alan’s scared of himself. And nothing I try seems to help. I told him we trust him, I told him I know he’d never hurt people with fire, he never did-”

“Ah.”

_Huh?_

For a moment he heard Ja’far breathing. “Simon?” The ex-assassin said quietly. “I need you to leave for a few minutes.”

“If one of my students is in trouble-”

“Three of them might be, but it’s not something you can fix over the phone,” Ja’far said firmly. “And we can’t fix it without some time to think. I’ll explain _after_ I’ve chewed out a magi.”

For a moment, Simon was quiet. “You’re still a teenager, Aladdin, and I meant it when I said I was taking you in as my cousin,” the principal said firmly. “Ja’far? Don’t be cruel.”

“He’s a teenager, but he’s been looking after himself for years, and that has responsibilities as well as rights,” Ja’far answered. “I don’t want to hurt him. I just want to be sure we get to the heart of this, so it doesn’t bite us later.”

“...I trust you.”

Somewhere on the other side of the phone, Aladdin heard a door shut.

“Now.”

_Uh-oh_. Aladdin could almost hear the knives unsheathed.

“Based on what I’ve seen, and what I remember, you’re probably right; most of the problem isn’t Amon’s fire,” Ja’far said clinically. “Or even Equipping. At least, not directly.”

Aladdin frowned. “Not directly?”

“I had reasons to study how memory works,” Ja’far informed him. “Physical actions, anything that carries you in a motion like an emotionally charged situation, creates a powerful association with memories. It can drag up things you thought dead and buried a lifetime ago. From what I recall of Sinbad learning to use his Djinn, that form is physically _you_ while you’re Equipped. I’d be more surprised if Alan wasn’t confused right now.” There was a tiny _shrrrip_ , like razor-sharp metal poking paper. “But the fear... I suspect that’s not Amon directly, but the fact that Amon’s effects overlap with whatever you did to wake some of Alibaba’s memories.” A pause. “Did you ask Alan before you did that?”

That wasn’t _fair_. “They promised to wait for me.”

“I _know_.”

Oh, ouch. Aladdin could hear that shadow of hurt in Ja’far’s voice. And maybe he’d never dealt with the former assassin much in Sindria, not nearly as much as Alibaba had, trying to learn how not to get assassinated, but he’d listened to enough problems in the palace to know how much Sinbad relied on Ja’far. “Why - why do you remember when Simon doesn’t?”

“That’s a long story,” Ja’far said quietly. “I do want to talk to you about it.” He hesitated. “Well. Part of it. Do you remember how injured Sinbad was, after you dealt with David?”

Ow. He remembered that too well. “It really hurt him,” Aladdin winced. “Like he was bleeding inside his soul. If Alibaba hadn’t been there with me, if all of you hadn’t done everything you could to help....”

“We would have lost him,” Ja’far said quietly. “Aladdin, if you’ve woken any of Alibaba’s memories - terror leaves a mark. And we were all terrified.”

It didn’t make sense. “But that was David! Amon wouldn’t-”

“Amon is an intruder in Alan’s mind.” Steel slashed air. “Fear is meant to save your life. If Amon were anything like David, Alan would be right to be terrified.” Ja’far’s voice softened. “You and I both know Amon is not like that. That he would rather be destroyed than become anything like that. That he and all Solomon’s Household put their very existence on the line to stop David once - and then again, to save Sinbad.” He took a long breath. “You and I know that. Alan doesn’t. Not yet.”

“You think that’s why the Equip scared him? Because a king has to act with his Djinn, and....” Aladdin had to stop there, thinking of how hard Alibaba had worked to gain Amon’s power for them all. He’d known other dungeon capturers, seen that power flow free for the asking, king and Djinn bound as one....

Alan didn’t know any of that. Only that he’d been given power he’d never looked for; the kind of power that would make other people treat him differently, forever.

_Like me_.

He hadn’t asked to be a magi. He’d never wanted the power to change the world. All he’d wanted was a friend.

_I have a friend. I just need to let him figure that out_.

“Aladdin?”

“You’re right,” Aladdin said thoughtfully. “I grew up with Djinn. He didn’t. I think... I should tell him some stories. About Ugo, and Amon... and maybe Paimon too, she was kind of nice.”

“Go lightly on Paimon,” Ja’far advised. “And I wouldn’t mention any of the other Djinn of the Empire; not now. Wait until he’s had time to be sure Amon is his ally.” He sighed, relieved. “Though there’s another problem that affects all of us, not just Alan. If the dungeons are going to bring memories back - you ought to understand the neurology involved when the awakened rukh tangles up with magoi. Nerves run on life energy, after all-”

“Wait,” Aladdin said fast, head hurting. “Neuro-what? And it’s tangled up with magoi? Like... like Hakuryuu using ki techniques, and his hands would shake after....”

“A lot like that.” The _shrrripp_ ing stopped. “Why don’t you stop by my office tomorrow, after school?”

Aladdin bit his lip. “But Alan’s hurt _now_.”

“Hurt, but he’ll live,” Ja’far stated. “Move too fast when the brain’s involved, and you can do a lot more damage. Tomorrow you can look at my reference books, ask me questions; I do have some training in this. Even,” the barest breath of hesitation, “pick my brain with Solomon’s Wisdom. If you want.”

_Ja’far likes his secrets_ , Aladdin remembered. _He’s serious about this_.

“I wanted to ask you about something related to this, anyway,” Ja’far went on. “It’s not about the dungeons, exactly-”

Aladdin frowned, putting pieces together. “Malachy said Tiburon was going to do something reckless for you.”

“I’m going to try to make it _not_ reckless,” Ja’far growled. “But I don’t know enough. Half the things I do with Life Magic I taught myself, and... the way I know how to do this spell so it works, can hurt people. I want to know if there’s another way.”

Aladdin chuckled.

“What?”

“Uncle Sinbad’s right,” Aladdin decided. “Or... I guess Uncle _Simon’s_ right, about this.”

_“What?”_

“I wish you could meet Sphintus now,” Aladdin said softly. “His family were assassins, too. Life Mages the Heliohapt kings made curse their enemies with diseases. Sphintus _hated_ that. That’s why he went to Magnostadt. I bet you’d have a lot to talk about.” He smiled. “Thanks, Ja’far. I feel a lot better now. About everything.”

_Maybe Simon’s the way Uncle Sinbad should have been, if Al-Thamen hadn’t messed with him. Maybe we can keep him just shifty and crazy and awesome, and not using people._

_Maybe I can let Alan be his student, and not worry so much._

_Maybe_.

* * *

Simon knocked on the doorframe, then walked in at Ja’far’s grumbled _arrrrgh_. “Bad?”

“Gnmph.” Ja’far glared at the innocent landline phone lurking on Simon’s office desk, looking like he’d like to prick it as full of as many holes as he’d left in the top of his notes.

Simon nodded. “So how badly did Aladdin screw up?”

Ja’far muttered some very ancient bad words, and absently checked the knives in his sleeves. “One being dropping a tissue on the floor, and ten being someone dead?” He shifted his shoulders, settling his dress shirt as if he couldn’t quite stand the fit. “About a seven. If he doesn’t realize there are times even a magi should sit on his hands, he stands the chance of sparking a rift worse than the one between Yunan and... never mind. Not important right now.” Ja’far clasped his hands together, gray eyes half-closed.

_Ah, the summing-up pose_ , Simon nodded. _Here we go_....

“Learning to Equip a Djinn involves a certain amount of guesswork and sheer stubbornness,” Ja’far stated. “A Metal Vessel User has to... focus the energy of their Djinn. To link up with it. Different Djinn hold mastery of different elements, and each Djinn has their own personality. I learned about Amon secondhand from Sharrkan when he trained Alibaba, but I distinctly remember hearing that Amon _did not Equip_ the same way Baal did. Baal is,” the magician hesitated, grasping for words, “like lightning sheeting over you. If the stroke went _through_ you, it’d stop your heart.”

Simon winced, graphic images of actors made up to portray lightning-struck horror victims and a few pictures of actual lightning victims coming to mind. The Gulf Coast had lightning the way Los Angeles had wildfires.

_Amon is fire_ , Simon realized. “You said Alan _singed his soul_.”

“Amon has to be focused through his king,” Ja’far said soberly. “Alan pulled it off; I can only imagine how much magoi dragonfire carries. He _will_ recover. But between that, and the fact that using Amon’s magoi had to resonate _directly_ with the part of the rukh that carries Alibaba’s memories... Aladdin says Alan’s scared of himself.”

Simon opened his mouth to speak - and thought better of it, doing a little editing first. Ja’far hardly needed a refresher on vulgar language. “You mean if the Alibaba memories were down at the bottom of a pool, Alan just stirred some up the hard way.” _Like your clan did with you_.

Ja’far grimaced. “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

Simon rocked back on his heels. “Are you telling me it gets worse?”

“...Yes,” his friend sighed. “Yes, it does.” A silent snarl; then gray focused back on him. “Something I didn’t appreciate at the time is the fact that a Djinn and his chosen king are _linked_. Until the king dies. A king can’t use his Djinn’s power without a Vessel, but the Djinn _isn’t confined_ to the Vessel. The Vessel is the focus. But if it’s broken, a Djinn can transfer that focus to a new one.”

_But if the Djinn isn’t in the Vessel, then how-?_

_Oh._

Simon brushed at his hair, hoping it wasn’t all standing on end. “You mean Amon - someone who is incredibly powerful, incredibly ancient, and _not human_....”

“Is inside Alan’s rukh,” Ja’far said bluntly. “Yes. Making himself at home. Making sure his king can support him without dying. Taking whatever steps he feels necessary to protect the lord of _all_ the Djinn, Aladdin.”

Definitely not good. “It changes your personality?” Because if it did, Simon was going to give serious consideration to walling up the deeper of Baal’s tunnels. Maybe they could get a concrete truck through the gate?

“What? No, I-” Ja’far pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not saying this accurately. English doesn’t have the same words for magoi manipulation.... A link to a Djinn alters your energy flow. And since nerves work on energy, that can make you doubt yourself until you adjust to it. Unless you’re an overconfident idiot to start with. A lot of kings were back then.”

Simon was pretty sure there was a subtle jab in there somewhere. Or possibly not so subtle. “So Amon is stirring up old memories because Alibaba remembers a Djinn’s power.” And leave aside the whole _Djinn inside your rukh_ mess, though he planned to pin Ja’far down for details later. “I’m having a hard time coming up with how Aladdin could have possibly made things worse. Besides being a lonely fourteen-year-old boy who desperately misses his best friends.”

“A fourteen-year-old _Magi_.” Ja’far shifted his shoulders again, disgruntled at innocent cotton. “Think less magician and more potential Reality Warper. And he _wants_ Alan to remember.”

_Something wrong with his shirt?_ Simon thought. _Need to check that; he may hate spending money on clothes, but I’ll drag him into the Home Ec/Costuming classes if I have to. He depends on being able to move_. “We could try separating them? I know I’m not the best housekeeper, but I can take Aladdin in-” His brain put together _reality warper_ and _lonely_ , and Simon winced. “That’d just make things worse, wouldn’t it? If he doesn’t see Alan, he’d want even more to have Alibaba back.”

“On top of that, you’d be fighting a very protective fifteen-year-old who’s decided he’s responsible for Aladdin and Morgan,” Ja’far pointed out clinically. “Do I need to remind you about Alibaba, kidnapping, and airports? Also, Aladdin doesn’t trust you with Alan as far as he can throw you. Without using magic. That would end badly.”

“He doesn’t trust me?” Simon frowned. “Why?”

Gray eyes slid away. “It’s nothing you did.”

_Then what did you- Wait_ , Simon cautioned himself. _That was a distraction, and I almost fell for it_. “You mean, it’s nothing I did _now_. He knew me before, didn’t he? Ja’far, I know you don’t like to talk about my past, but what on earth did I do to him?” He flicked back a bit of violet hair. “And where on earth did he get time to watch my movies? ‘Uncle Sinbad,’ indeed....”

One blink, and he would have missed it. But for a moment, Ja’far _smiled_.

_Womanizer of the Seven Seas. Baal’s former King._

_Uncle Sinbad_.

“...I think I’m going to sit down,” Simon got out, and grabbed blindly for his office chair. Only Ja’far was in the way-

And then not, as the magician slipped aside and got Simon’s hand to latch onto the chair arm, mischief glimmering in gray eyes. “Oh, I’ve been _waiting_ for this.”

“You,” Simon breathed, leaning hard on polished wood. As if it could stand between him and an abyss of centuries’ worth of utter, bewildered amazement. “You said I was the Sindrian ambassador.”

“You were _a_ Sindrian ambassador,” Ja’far corrected him, entirely too innocent. “Royalty was a lot more hands-on back then. You went on diplomatic missions for the King of Sindria. They didn’t always go well.”

“A _merchant adventurer_.”

“The Sindria Trading Company existed for years before we went all in and you carved out your own kingdom,” Ja’far replied. “So, yes.”

“I met the Generals when they had to _get me out of trouble_.”

“I joined your little crusade to change the world in Vaalefor’s dungeon,” Ja’far said, far too cheerfully. “I’d been on assignment from the Partevian government. _You_ were the assignment. You talked me out of it. Masrur - Malachy - tried to kill you at his master’s orders in a gladiator’s arena. Sharrkan... I’ll save that story for later. Let’s just say he ended up an exiled prince of Heliohapt and he didn’t regret it at all. Every time you were up to your neck in trouble that should have killed you, but you managed to get us all out of it. With help.” He paused, eyes dark. “You pulled me out of a Dark Djinn. _Twice_. In a very real sense, I owe you my soul.”

Frightening thought. And too dark for a night like this. “You said another empire’s ambassador found me in her bed and challenged me to a duel-”

“Princess Kougyoku. That was sticky,” Ja’far smirked. “She showed up on Sindria’s docks ready to kill you, kill herself, or _marry_ you. I’m not sure which was scarier. Lucky for all of us Yamraiha was able to prove someone had snuck her into your bed while you were asleep, and you didn’t know a thing about it.”

“Damn,” Simon said regretfully. “Was she pretty- wait. Kougyoku? The princess with her own Djinn?”

“One of the princesses who’d won one, yes,” Ja’far nodded. “Ren Kougyoku, eighth princess of the Kou Empire.”

So he’d been accused of besmirching the honor of a princess of the same empire that had invaded Alibaba’s kingdom... oh hell. “Was that before or after we kidnapped Alibaba?” _Please say before, please say before_ -

“After,” Ja’far said, very dryly.

Meaning he’d managed to let himself be put in a position where the Kou Empire had a real and plausible case for going to war with Sindria, after he’d taken in politically important refugees already fleeing said empire. _Argh_. “Ja’far, if I’m ever that blithely overconfident again, hit me.”

_“As you wish, my king.”_

Simon shook his head, shaken to the core. He knew those words, the formal response to a king’s command. Knew them to the bone.

_And all this time you let me think we were both subordinates dealing with the same crazy boss_. “You have a _terrible_ sense of humor.”

Ja’far pressed a fist to pale lips, snickers sneaking out past it. “The look on your face!”

“You-” Simon had to stop, and catch his breath. “You’re not joking, are you?”

“No.” Gray eyes were still bright, but a little more sober. “I wouldn’t joke about this, Simon. Not ever.”

_Sinbad, lord of Sindria. King of the Seven Seas_. Simon cupped his face in his hands, feeling as if there weren’t enough air in the room. “How... how much of the stories are true...?”

“More than you’d imagine, and less than you fear.” Ja’far’s hand settled on his shoulder, working at some of the tension there. “You heard what I told Tiburon about Al-Thamen. We were in a desperate situation, and we did desperate things. Some of them things you don’t want to remember. Some things _I_ don’t want to remember. But you did your best to save the world from utter destruction, and you tried to keep Sindria a place where anyone who was there, was there of their own free will. Of course you wanted those three on your side! A Magi, a Metal Vessel User whose kingdom had been conquered by your enemies, one of the last young Fanalis of that generation? You wanted them as allies, and you were _not_ ashamed at trying a few less than ethical tricks to keep them. So Aladdin doesn’t trust you. Yet.” Fingers gripped, firm and warm. “But that’s not fair. You’re not the same person as the one who did those things. You’ve had different choices, and you took them. You’re an actor. A teacher. Not a politician. Anyone who follows you, is here because we want to be here.” Light as a butterfly’s footsteps, Ja’far’s chin brushed the top of his head. “And you’re still my friend.”

For a moment Simon saw the swarm of rukh around them; like a cloud of moonlight hummingbirds, touched with a feather-brush of dawn.

_This is important. What we do here, changes everything_.

He’d known Ja’far trusted him. How deep that friendship ran... sometimes Simon tried not to think about it. Because damn it, he might not admit it to Tiburon or Ja’far or even the mirror - but it was like being dumped into the middle of the ocean over the Marianas Trench. Sure, he could swim. But that was a _hell_ of a lot of water down there, and if any place in the world still harbored sea monsters....

_Heroes are the ones who fight the monsters_.

Simon leaned back, searching out gray eyes. “Whoever I was... you knew all along. And if the stories are true, you fought at my side. You trusted me with your life. You must miss that.” He took a steadying breath. “But you’ve never asked me to remember. When you know you could do it. That must be hard.”

“Yes,” Ja’far admitted. “And no. Simon, it’s not- damn it, I _like_ you. I’ve gotten to know you all over again, when we weren’t desperately trying to stave off the end of the world. And there was a lot of pain back there, _especially_ for you, and there is no way - no way - I would inflict that on my best friend unless the world was coming to an end. Again.” He shrugged, a little sheepish. “Tiburon would be different. Sharrkan was a General, not a king.”

Now there was a name from the stories to make the hairs on Simon’s neck stand up. Even as the acquisitive director in his soul wanted to rub its hands and cackle. “You’re going to bring Sharrkan back?”

“I... Tiburon asked me to bring Sharrkan’s memories back _for_ him,” Ja’far corrected him. “I said I’d think about it. I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Even if I can modify the spell so it’s not so - intense.”

“Hmm.” Simon folded his hands together, thinking hard. That was an honest plea, and Ja’far didn’t ask for help often. “Not a good idea because of what it might do to Tiburon? Or not a good idea because you desperately need help to keep us out of lethal trouble and you want to see him so badly it makes you ache to stab someone?”

_“Yes.”_

_No teasing the ex-assassin_ , Simon reminded himself. _Not about this_. “Well, he’s right that you need more help,” he said soberly. “I never considered that one of the monsters could get out of the dungeon after us. Much less what safeguards we should set up for when - _when_ , not if - one does. Forget what Callimachus tried; if it hadn’t been for Alan and Aladdin, I’d have lost a lot of students today. And I... I’m not sure I could ever have forgiven myself for being so _monumentally stupid_.”

Ja’far lowered his gaze. “You didn’t know.”

“Exactly. I _didn’t know_.” Simon ducked his head to catch gray eyes again. “And you can’t think of everything. We need help. Tiburon’s volunteering. And he’s not an unlucky thirteen-year-old about to be swamped by an ancient assassin.”

“No,” Ja’far admitted reluctantly. “No, he’s... I haven’t tried to get at the classified parts of his life. But it’s possible Tiburon has as much lethal experience as Sharrkan did.”

“So,” Simon nodded. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea. But I don’t think it’s a bad one.” He hesitated. “What was Sharrkan like?”

“Before or after you corrupted him into some of your bad habits?”

Simon might have been tempted to take offense, if he hadn’t seen that sly gleam of humor in Ja’far’s gaze. “Any particular bad habits I should worry about?”

“Lazing in bed, carousing in taverns with pretty girls, and latent Blood Knight tendencies whenever he got to fight for real?” Ja’far’s smile was faintly sad. “If you set a good example, Principal Cavins, I think we can avoid most of those.”

“The man wants me to be _responsible_ ,” Simon lamented. Heaved a mock sigh, and pressed his hands to his heart in the best soap opera fashion. “I am doomed.”

That won him the snicker he’d been hoping for. Good.

“If Tiburon’s willing to risk it, I think you should consider casting the spell,” Simon went on, more seriously. “It is his life, and his choice. But I also think you should talk to Aladdin. For two reasons.” He held up one finger. “If he can get English through the rukh without getting tangled in someone else’s memories, maybe he can help fix the Magnos spell so that doesn’t tangle as badly.” A second. “Aladdin loves magic. If you honestly need his help to fix a spell, he will be busy with something _he understands_. Instead of spending all his time flailing around trying to adapt to our world. That should give Alan some time to breathe. I know,” he added, before Ja’far could frown at him, “it’s not a permanent fix. What we need is for Aladdin to work _with_ Alan, in a project that uses Alan’s strengths.”

“Alan’s, and not Alibaba’s,” Ja’far murmured. “So... not swords, and not magic.”

“Right.” Simon stole a piece of paper to take notes of his own; if Richard was as clueless about Alan as Alan had been about him, asking Alan’s father would be less than no help. Simon only hoped Tanya wouldn’t mind too much when he called her tomorrow. “So what does Alan do when he’s not saving teenage magi?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Okay, when it comes to the Proto-Indo-Europeans, devas, Tarim mummies, etc., I am mangling world history. Deliberately.
> 
> That said, the Pamir Mountains are where one group of Indo-Europeans is theorized to have come from before they crossed into the Tarim Basin, and Karakul really is a brackish “lake” formed by an impact crater. Which is just cool.
> 
> paq’o - K’iche’ (Quechua): Healer, shaman in the Andean tradition who treats soul illness. Source I found said there were three levels, and yes, two of them are people who have been struck by lightning.


	10. Gone Horribly Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nightmares, memories, and poking at spellcasting. AKA, Ja'far gets to fill Aladdin in on why messing with the brain is a Bad Idea.

“Okay,” Alan muttered under his breath as he typed at Morgan’s computer. “I think the only possible title for this entry is _Gone Horribly Right_....”

_‘Higher education has unsuspected depths of craziness_ , _’_ Alan tapped out. _‘Those of you following this humble posting may recall I mentioned a crocodile? Right. A crocodile would have been_ easily dealt with, _compared to today.’_

Morgan leaned over his shoulder, peering at the words. “You write very formally.”

“I keep in practice for articles,” Alan shrugged. “Haven’t had time to pull one together lately.”

_‘Now I know why the principal was strangely prepared,’_ he typed on. _‘Although note, even the best laid plans for creatures of a scaly and ferocious nature can fail when critter-events are compounded by active arson and potential mass hallucinatory events. Or in other words? Murphy was an optimist_. _’_

“Murphy wasn’t always right.” Morgan’s hand touched his shoulder. “Though Callimachus might think he was. He didn’t plan for a fiery sword.”

“He will next time,” Alan muttered, staring at the screen. What should he mention about an alchemist, or even about fire? If anything? Maria would be reading this, he knew it; and while he wanted to toss her the awesome news of _there are people who understand magic_ -

Sister Thomasina would also be reading it. Meaning he had to be careful how he phrased anything related to magic. Tricky.

_‘On the bright side_ , _’_ Alan observed, _‘if there’s a zombie apocalypse, this place is going to pick its_ teeth _with the zeds.’_

Morgan laughed.

_Oh, do that again_. Alan lifted his hands off the keyboard a moment. “...You know, that actually makes me feel better,” he said thoughtfully. “Zombie apocalypse, anything goes.”

“So you’d have an excuse.” Roan eyes raked him. “You’re used to holding back. All the time. Why?”

_You can punch holes in cliffs, and you think I’m holding back?_ Alan almost said. But damn it, that’d be lying.

“Words can hurt people,” he said instead. “Even if they’re true. Especially if they are.”

Morgan nodded, eyes steady as a tiger’s. “Tell me.”

“I’m not the kind of guy you think I am.” Alan had to look away. “Definitely not the guy Aladdin thinks I am.”

Gripping the back of his chair with deceptively slender hands, Morgan waited.

“Technically, I lived in a small town,” Alan started. “It was smaller when I was little. Two churches, one general store, and anybody who wanted to get drunk had to get out of town. Not that far out, Boston has a long reach, and it wasn’t that hard for people to find guys selling what they wanted to buy.” _And some of them thought - no. Enough_. “Ever think about why you don’t sit up against the south windows in the caf?”

She frowned. “We’ve only been at Hancock a week.”

_Hah. Dodging the question_. “You never sit in the south, because that’s where the football team mugs for girls in the shiniest sunlight,” Alan stated. “They have a bunch of the other athletes, but those are the football tables. They leave your cousins alone, your cousins leave them alone, and you can almost draw a line right down the middle of the cafeteria. The senior Queen Bee Beatrice Hummer has her table staked out two tables away; close enough to throw the boys little smiles, far enough that they have to stand up and make it obvious if they’re trying to get anything more. The computer nerds and the techies get a lot better vibe than the last place I was, guess being in charge of the programs that make people look good helps - but they still don’t stray more than a few tables from the door.” He paused. “And if you wanted to start fights in the halls for weeks, all you’d have to do is _accidentally_ drop a folded note behind Beatrice’s table that had one of the second-string players confessing his undying lust for anybody from the tech side. If you really wanted to make it ugly, you’d work in a mention of, _‘I don’t care what anybody says about Michaela, you’re the one for me’_. Because she’s pretty, if guys would look past the glasses, and Bio isn’t quite as geeky as tech, which would make the ripple swirl out farther and nastier.” Alan took a deep breath. “And that’s what I know now. When I was nine? I could see things almost as well, and I had no good judgment whatsoever.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “What did you do?”

“Oh, me?” Alan shrugged. “I started a gang war.”

She stared, fingers going limp with shock.

“My mom finally got it through my head I didn’t _cause_ the whole thing,” Alan said, dragging the words out. He hated it. All of it. And somehow, he hated that it wasn’t all his fault more. How could people want to do things like that to each other? “Gangs were moving out from Boston to find more territory to sell drugs in; it was only a matter of time before a couple of them had a fatal argument. But even though Mom and I stayed out of the _really_ bad parts of the city, sometimes, chasing stories, we crossed paths with... not so good guys. And one of them made a crack about my Mom. And-” He spread empty hands. “I told him what I knew about _him_ , and the pair of girlfriends he had who didn’t know about each other, and the boyfriends one of them had that _he_ didn’t know about, who were passing info to two of the _other_ gangs, and... boom.” He took a breath. “The cops were picking up the pieces for weeks.”

Morgan’s breath huffed out, as if she’d been punched in the gut.

_Yeah. Well, I did, didn’t I_. “Worst part was afterward,” Alan admitted. “One of the cops Mom had as a source stopped by, patted me on the head and said what a great day it was looking like out there, all the bad guys shooting each other....” He grimaced. “She gave him what-for, believe me. But... _damn_ it. Sometimes there are real bad guys out there. I know that. Sometimes somebody has to get shot. But acting like that’s ever a good thing - no. I can’t, damn it. People are worth saving. Somebody should _try_.”

“Yes,” Morgan said softly. “Someone should.”

“So. I try not to... do things like that again,” Alan shrugged. “I learned to not get seen. Not get caught, even by the guys like Pablo’s gang - street kids, they’ll rob you blind, but they stay away from drugs, so if you have to run through _somebody’s_ turf theirs is safer.” _Tell her about Pablo, not Maria and the ak’al-ab. Less complicated. And a lot less likely to get innocent bystanders in trouble. Even if it means I might have to explain the whole stuffed unicorn kidnapping and storm drain rescue_. “At least, it is if you’re not getting followed by the cops. They’ve still got me and Mom down as CIs in the station, did you know that? It got so I knew when the next graduating class got hired, ‘cause I’d look up from the salvage bins and guess who was trying to look inconspicuous as they drove by....” He had to laugh, just a little. “But I guess I can’t blame them, either. They’ve got jobs to do, and it’s a heck of a temptation to just pick up the guy who _knows_ everybody and give him a good shake until a suspect’s name falls out.”

Morgan was blinking at him. “So when you said you were supposed to stay out of police custody... it wasn’t because you did anything _wrong_.”

“Define wrong,” Alan said quietly. “See kids eating a bag of chips right out of the nearest store that sells food, when you know they couldn’t scrape together a nickel between them, and say nothing? Run into a lady you know is a hooker, and tell her to just head inside, because the cops are heading this way and she’s got two kids? Break into a place that’s breaking the rules, before the wrong chemicals mix and something goes boom? I’m not exactly a good citizen-”

Lifting her hands off the chair, Morgan reached around and hugged him.

_Huh?_

* * *

“I thought someone hurt you.” Morgan hung onto him, relieved. This, she knew how to deal with. “I didn’t know you were scared of hurting other people. You must have been angry.”

“I was a stupid kid.”

Morgan leaned her head against his, scenting that old hurt. “Being angry isn’t stupid. It can make you do stupid things, but just being angry isn’t wrong. I was angry for a long time.” She breathed out, glad to be holding onto someone else alive. “Sometimes I’m still angry.”

Alan turned in the chair, so the hug wasn’t quite so awkward. “What happened?”

“Mom was National Guard,” Morgan said quietly. Facts. The facts didn’t hurt like the memories, red hair like her own and the scent of her hug and then _gone_. “She got called up. She... Fanalis have good noses.” That wouldn’t be enough, it was never enough-

“They didn’t know how she was finding the bombs, they just knew she was.” Alan hugged her closer.

Morgan started. “How did you-?”

“...Lucky guess?”

She pulled back enough to stare at him.

Alan slumped a little. “Research and statistics. And meeting your family. Female, National Guard, good at hand-to-hand and restraining people without hurting them - she wouldn’t be on the front lines. Officially. She’d be searching women. Or at least people dressed like women. And if she was good at it, and all of you are _really_ good at scary things, and word got out... even a Fanalis can’t dodge enough snipers.” He bent his head. “I’m sorry.” His hand found hers. “And then what?”

Morgan wet her lips. “How-?”

“I’ve got eyes and I’ve _met your family_ ,” Alan said gently. “Your dad would be here if he could. So - he can’t.”

“He could have been,” Morgan whispered. It hurt, but she was done crying. She was. “He... he loved her too much. He just - left-”

Alan tugged her closer, so she could rest her head on his shoulder and just stay there a while. “That sucks.”

“Uncle’s still mad at him,” Morgan got out. “I don’t think he knows I know, but - once a year he goes out to yell at the family marker. And... I don’t think he’s wrong. I used to. I used to be so angry, I...” She looked down at clenched fists. “I hurt people, too.”

“Hospital?” Alan said. Matter of fact. Neutral. As if....

_He’s not angry at me_. “Yes.”

“Better than the morgue.” Alan sighed. “Sorry. I’ve been a scared jerk, huh?”

“Fire is dangerous. Words are dangerous.” Morgan breathed in, and out, releasing the tension the way Malachy and Shionne had gone over and over with her. Being angry was okay. Letting anger act _for_ you - that was not. Ever. “If you weren’t worried, I wouldn’t like you.”

“Oh.”

Fingers on her hair, stroking slow and careful. That was nice.

“...Do you want to help me put the rest of this piece together?”

Morgan blinked open half-closed eyes.

Alan was just a little pink, and very close. “I’d... kind of like to get _something_ in about the dragon, and fire magic, and warning people about Fomoire chains in case they’ve never seen anything like it and they get caught. But I’m used to writing articles. Not stuff that has to be subtle about magic.” He glanced at the clock. “And your family’s going to stuff us into bed soon... into _beds_ soon. Everyone’s. Separate. Bed. Is what I meant, and-”

She raised an eyebrow, and hoped it looked half as intimidating as Uncle Malachy’s. It might not be a horde of electrical moles, but it was _partnership_. “You want me to help you fight the evil words so you can get your post up?”

“Yes?” His hand scrabbled for the mouse. “What do you want for a username?”

* * *

“Bed,” Malachy said firmly, gripping a son by each shoulder to politely urge them away from their cousin’s bedroom door.

“But, Dad,” Dougal protested, dragging his heels.

“Just one little tripwire,” Ianatan pleaded. “We’ll even leave off the razor wire. But that’s our baby cousin in there with two guys-!”

“Two guys she can _break in half_.” Malachy kept his voice down. “You can listen and smell just as well as I can. The boys are on the mattress and all they’re doing is _sleeping_.”

“...That’s just _unnatural_ ,” Dougal grumbled. “They’re guys.”

“I have to get you both in on the dungeon trips,” Malachy observed, marching on. “Teaching is obviously not wearing you two out enough.”

Ianatan almost looked innocent. “You can wear a guy out enough he’s not thinking of cute girls?”

“Um, Ian,” Dougal got out.

Malachy smiled at them.

“Going to bed now yessir,” Dougal said all in a rush.

Ianatan nodded, wide-eyed, and scampered after him.

Behind him, Shionne stifled a laugh. “Nicely done.”

Turning toward his wife, Malachy deliberately buffed his nails on his shirt, and blew them off.

That earned him a wide grin, with nothing demure about it. Shionne took a step toward their bedroom, and blinked up at him.

Well. What kind of husband would he be, to pass up an invitation like that?

* * *

Later, he stroked Shionne’s hair as she curled against him. “Know how I finally met Simon’s friend Ja’far?”

“The elusive vice-principal?” She chuckled into his shoulder. “If I didn’t have his signatures on some of the paperwork I’d doubt he even existed. What’s he like?”

“We should have him over sometime.” Malachy frowned a little, thinking it over. “With Simon. So no one gets nervous.”

“Oh?”

“Lethally trained,” Malachy informed her. “Life magician.”

“...Oh.” Shionne glanced toward Morgan’s bedroom. “Will he be teaching Aladdin?”

“Think they’ll be teaching each other,” Malachy mused. “Hoping I can set him on our boys, too. They could use shaking up a little.”

Delicate red brows arched. “He’s that good?”

Malachy nodded.

“And you want to invite him over.” His wife smiled, reading his intent.

“I like to pick up shiny things the world has missed,” Malachy acknowledged. “Except Ja’far should be in Simon’s clan. If he had one.”

“Well, that’s simple.”

Malachy lifted a curious brow.

“I like to pick up what the world’s overlooked, too,” Shionne observed. “Especially when the shiny in question makes himself look so obviously part of the flash and glamour, no one notices how truly outside the crowd he is. That’s a rare skill.” Her eyes went distant, likely calculating exactly how strong the ropes would have to be. “And one we should definitely try to grab.”

* * *

Hands. Death-gray hands like a nest of undead serpents, all striking fast as bullets. He moved; he flew, wrapped in flames, but the hands arced after him like gravity was a bad joke, and where they touched-

_Acid. Pain. Fading_.

Falling. Skin and flesh burned nearly to the bone, in a way that had nothing to do with fire. Fire would have helped, would have healed; that gray touch extinguished life itself....

Fire like wings. Arms, catching him, stronger than steel.

_No! Morgiana, get away! It’s not dead, how can it be dead; it’s only waiting until we all lose too much magoi to fight, and then-!_

Gray hands, snaring deep in red hair. Turning it to crackling black ash-

“Alan!” A hand, gripping his shoulder where he tossed on the air mattress. A warm hand. A _living_ hand. “Alan, wake up! It’s over. That’s not what happened!”

_I know_.

The memory was foggy, but there; like a photo, faded by too much sun. Flying. Getting caught, and partly _eaten_ , yet breaking free anyway. Losing his grip on Amon when it looked like the cavalry had saved the day, and being saved by Morgiana with chains of blazing fire....

_It didn’t eat her. It never did_.

“It’s over,” Aladdin said softly, as Morgan pressed tight enough against Alan’s right shoulder to leave a dent with her chin. “We beat it. We finished Al-Thamen. There won’t ever be another Medium again. Not _ever_.”

His hands were shaking, even as Alan fisted them in the sheets. _Woke Morgan right out of her own bed; how badly did I yell?_ “Guess I’m just a permanent scaredy-cat.”

“Are you kidding? Everybody was scared of that thing! Even Sinbad! He just didn’t show it.” Aladdin frowned. “Well, maybe not Kouen. But it was between him and knowing how the world started, and he was always kind of crazy about that.”

_Kouen_. That name brought up too many fragmented images. Red flags over a city rebuilt like an alien disease. Choking frustration. _Horror_ , in a way the Medium could never have horrified him. Because the Medium wanted to destroy everything living, but the Kou Empire destroyed people’s hopes and dreams and called it peace....

And it was gone again, like broken glass dropped into clear water. Invisible, until he stepped on the sharp edges of memories that _weren’t his_.

Alan freed a hand to touch the metal at his throat, and thought longingly of dark water, and all the things that could be lost in it.

“What are you _doing?_ ” Aladdin clamped a hand over his, blue eyes wide in the darkness. “He’s your Djinn! You have a contract!”

_Morgan’s awake. I know she is_. Which made this even harder. But Aladdin deserved the truth. “...I can’t do this.”

The magi let out a patient breath. “You’re tired. You’re scared. It was a long day, you just need-”

And damn it, he was tired of other people telling him what he needed. “Damn it, Aladdin, _I can’t do this!_ I’m not that strong! I’m not that brave-”

_Aladdin_. The name didn’t even sound the same in his ears anymore. A day ago he would have heard _Ah-LAD-din_ , like anyone in the States would say it....

_AL’ahdjin_.

The smile on the magi’s face made it even worse.

_Get away_.

He couldn’t outrun Morgan. He couldn’t outrun a crazy flying carpet with an even crazier friendly magi.

He could and did dive under the pillow, hoping beyond hope that the world would just _go away_. Go back to being sane and normal and predictable in how it hurt him. Because they cared about him, they cared as much as his mother ever had-

_And she’s dead_.

And there was something people weren’t telling him, he could feel it any time he went near his - near Mr. Silversmith. Who _didn’t_ care about him, damn it, because people who cared about him just gave up and left....

_Gave up and died_.

He scrunched his eyes shut under cotton-bound stuffing, and tried not to think.

“What’s wrong with him?” Morgan’s voice was muffled by fabric. But not enough.

“Nightmares.” Sheets rustled as Aladdin got off the mattress. “Or... memories. I guess.”

Her frown was audible. “I don’t have dreams like that.”

“You don’t?” Aladdin’s voice was surprised, and oddly quiet. “You... back then, you had nightmares when you slept alone.”

A long pause. “I have nightmares. But not about monsters.”

“Oh. Right.” And that was a grin in Aladdin’s voice. “Fanalis are the _monsters’_ nightmares.”

It wasn’t quite a giggle, and it wasn’t quite a sob. But it hurt, even under the pillow. Alan winced, and forced his face out into the night air. “Are you okay?”

Morgan dragged in a shaky breath. “If you ever. _Ever_. Try to die to avenge me, _my ghost will kick your spine out_.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Alan said automatically, feeling said spine cringe. It obviously knew a threat when it heard one. “Don’t worry. If anything ever takes you down, I’m going to fry it from a distance and bring your uncle back the ashes.”

_And I mean it. Oof_.

Morgan seemed to uncoil a little, even as her gaze cut at Aladdin. “That goes for you too.”

“Eep?”

Morgan nodded, evidently reassured even Aladdin was taking her seriously. Settled back on the air mattress, close and warm.

Very close. Very warm. “Um,” Alan waved a hand, trying to express _aren’t you getting back in your own bed?_ without looking like he didn’t _want_ her right there. Because he did. A lot. The world was a very scary place and you couldn’t get much safer than curling up with a heavily-armed friend. Unless it was two heavily armed friends, because even in the darkness the flutters of rukh outlined Aladdin’s wand. “What are you doing?”

“I was just thinking... maybe Ja’far’s right,” Aladdin said reluctantly. “Amon keeps reaching out to you, and you keep _flinching_.” A whiff of air, like someone whipping mulberry wood at whining mosquitoes. “I think I’d better take a look.”

_Oh please, no more magic_. “It was a _nightmare_ ,” Alan said firmly. “I have them. Everybody does.”

“But-”

“We need to get up in the morning, and go to school. Like normal kids,” Alan went on. “Which means we need sleep. And there’s other ways to handle things than magic.” He scrambled down to the foot of the mattress where his backpack was, and came back with his CD player. Because he wasn’t lying. He had nightmares. A lot. They didn’t usually feature life-eating monsters from another world....

_But a nightmare’s a nightmare_ , Alan told himself. _Get the brain latched onto something else_.

Emergency musical first aid CD in place. Alan settled the player between them so they could all hear from the headphones, and hit play.

_“...Heroes, vagabonds, city of secrets;_

_“Land of mystery - Open Sesame!”_

Eyes closed, Alan let the music take him away.

* * *

“Music.” Ja’far tried to listen to the magi on his phone, and not the ominous early-morning swishes and thumps that were Simon going through his spare wardrobe. “That’s actually a good idea.”

Plastic _spang_ ed, and Simon muttered something under his breath. Ja’far tried not to sigh. Simon had decreed over breakfast that it would be a grievous breach of responsibility as a king and a principal to let his second in command walk out the door in garb he couldn’t work in properly. Completely ignoring said vice-principal’s protests that he could get by just fine in ordinary clothes, thank you.

And of course the former actor didn’t have anything as innocuous as a closet. No; Simon’s apartment was walled with bookshelves, cedar chests, and other odd containers labeled by movie, character, gear, or monster. Solomon only knew what he’d find looking for a shirt in ex-assassin size.

“Music reaches deep parts of the brain, right past the conscious mind into the emotions,” Ja’far said briskly. “If that’s how Alan likes to self-medicate for nightmares... it’s better than most things people do.” Self-inflicted insomnia, drinking too much, drugs - people had found a remarkable variety of ways to deal with the monstrous images spawned by their own sleeping minds. Or more accurately, _not_ deal with them.

Music actually did deal with nightmares; at least by breaking up the chain of bad mental associations long enough that someone might have a chance to jump to another train of thought. Sometimes it worked.

_Now how do I explain that to a magi of the old world?_

“Music’s like an aspirin... like willowbark for fever,” Ja’far tried. “It doesn’t cure anything, but it gives your body a rest so it can try to heal itself. I’ll take a look at school today to see if anything worse is going on, but if that was enough for him to sleep, I think you should leave it alone.”

“But he wouldn’t even let me look!” Aladdin protested.

_All right, enough of the soft touch. Bring out the two-by-four_. “When I was about his age, my- a group of magicians tried to say there was something wrong with _my_ mind.” Ja’far let his voice go very dry. “I didn’t take it well.”

“Um....”

“No one died,” Ja’far stated. “But the fact that someone had already used magic on me, and wanted to do more... I did not take it well. At all.”

Aladdin’s breath shuddered. “He’s hurting. I just- I want to do _something_.”

“You are,” Ja’far said firmly. “You’re trusting him to take care of himself, and you’re there. And if he keels over because something really is wrong, you’ll call me immediately.”

“R-right.”

_He’s worried. And he has good reasons_. “I _will_ explain what I think is going on this afternoon,” Ja’far promised. “But the brain is very complicated and I want to be sure I have everything I can on hand to show you exactly what I mean. If Alan does end up needing help, I want you to know what you can do, what you might do, and what you _absolutely must not_ do.”

“...Thanks, Ja’far.”

_Eh?_ That was real relief there. Not what he’d expected, telling Aladdin to _back off_.

“I miss Yamraiha,” Aladdin admitted. “I learned enough magic to figure out how much I don’t know.” A deep, steadier breath. “I didn’t get to know you very well back then. I’m glad I can do that now. You’re a good teacher.”

His cheeks were suspiciously hot. “I’d be a lousy one if I didn’t tell you to get off the phone, get breakfast, and get going. There’s less time until school than you think.”

“Right!” _Click_.

_Note, get Alan to teach Aladdin phone etiquette_ , Ja’far thought, closing his own phone with a bit of rueful relief. “Simon, leave it. I can wear my own shirts.”

“No, you can’t,” Simon said firmly, digging into yet another drawer. “You weren’t wrong about not being up to your full fighting trim. Well, you’ve been letting Malachy, Tiburon, and various dungeon monsters toss you around for days, so you’re getting there. And modern dress shirts just aren’t cut right for someone who can hang by his fingertips, kick himself up onto a roof, and disembowel a monster in one stroke.” Dark eyes raked him, head to foot. “Take it from someone who’s had to help poor beleaguered costumers wrestle extras into anything that looked decent. Shoulders matter. Hah!” He pulled out a neat bundle of pale cream-white, shook it out into a surprisingly understated and ruffle-free poet shirt. “Here. Linen, so don’t give me any grief about teachers shouldn’t wear silk to class. And the cuffs should be loose enough for your blades. Try it.”

Damn Sinbad and his unerring aim for weak spots. Simon could get him into almost anything by appealing to, _you want to be properly armed, right?_

_Wait,_ Ja’far thought, reluctantly taking the shirt. _There was something_ -

“So we’re dealing with a several-thousand-years-old case of PTSD?”

“Still an eavesdropper,” Ja’far grumbled, pulling linen over his head.

“I’ve looked after _you_.” Simon’s voice was a little gruff. “If his nerves are half as bad as yours were, I’m tempted to fling him at my paperwork and say have fun setting it on fire. Morgan should be okay, she has her family and MacLeas are very good about setting up things for therapeutic smashing. But Alan’s been yanked out of his own support system - as you were - and still has to pretend things are more or less fine. As you did. Either we get him to let off the pressure in a slow and contained way, or things go boom. I don’t think he’d hurt anyone, but our repair budget is already getting a workout this year.”

Linen was cool and loose and familiar; Ja’far pushed back his sleeves, and started winding red cords into place.

“So. This Medium....”

“I’ll give you details when we have an hour to spare,” Ja’far said briefly. “Whatever it touched, died. People. Trees. Land. The ocean itself. Someone in Djinn Equip could survive a brief encounter, but - it was close. Alibaba was one of the Djinn Warriors who got caught and managed to get free.” He tucked steel against skin, testing the draw. Huh. Looked like Simon was right.

“...Everything dying. Even the sea.” Simon’s voice was oddly quiet. “A hole in the waters, life pouring over the edges like Niagara Falls.”

Ja’far glanced up, shock jolting down his nerves. “You _remember?_ ”

“I dreamed it.” His friend blinked his way back to the present. “Pieces of it, anyway. Horrible hands, and a scream that itched at the inside of your ears. Like it’d eat even sound, if it could. We fought _that?_ ”

“You did,” Ja’far said steadily. _Damn. If Simon’s dreaming of any of that... maybe I should let him talk me into staying over nights_. “You almost lost.”

“So definite Nightmare Fuel.” Simon shook his head. “We need to tell Aladdin that what’s wrong with Alan is _there’s nothing wrong with Alan_. He’s having a perfectly sane reaction to remembering something trying to eat him.”

Ja’far settled his sleeves, frowning. “Wanting to get rid of Amon is _not_ a sane reaction-”

“No?” Simon said archly. “Alan is not an _idiot_. I imagine by now he’s finally added up the dates and figured out Amon’s attempt to get to Aladdin flattened his host with a life-threatening fever. And then there’s this Kouen you two mentioned. Or should I say, mentioned _again?_ Same one you used to bring home to Aladdin how scary an Equip would be to a normal person?” Simon waited for his reluctant nod. “Any relation to the Kou Empire we kidnapped Alibaba from before they could seize his kingdom?”

“The same imperial prince who conquered Balbadd,” Ja’far admitted. “Who wrecked its economy to begin with, invaded, took over, and obliterated as much as he could of its culture in the name of world peace under the united Kou Empire.” Solomon, how to sum up that mess in a few words.... “He brought slavery into Balbadd. I don’t think Alibaba ever forgave him for that.”

“So he’s remembering a person who took over and mutilated the kingdom he was responsible for, while he’s just figured out Amon managed to screw up his life so Richard could kidnap him down here. Given how fiercely he’s reacted to anyone’s attempts to draw him into belonging here, there must be something - or _someone_ \- he was forced to leave behind. Someone he’s responsible for.” Simon ran his fingers through purple locks, and sighed. “Forget the Medium, Ja’far. That was just a nightmare. _This_ is the real problem.” He paused, and eyed Ja’far. “What?”

Ja’far shook his head, trying not to stare. “...You’re _better_ at this than you used to be.”

He wasn’t sure what Simon saw in his expression, but he could see the man think better of whatever sarcastic quip he’d meant to make. “Well, I hope so,” Simon said instead, just a hint of a smile on his face. “Reincarnation would be so boring if you didn’t learn something from the last time around, right?”

Wordless, Ja’far nodded.

“I’ve always thought people like the Dalai Lama were the ones who really got hung out to dry,” Simon reflected. “Get through one life as a spiritual leader, die, get reborn - and then what happens? Do they let you run off to be an acrobat or a lion tamer or even an accountant? No. They track you down while you’re still too young to run for it, declare you the reborn high spiritual muckety-muck, and you get stuck in a retread of the same damned routine. Boring,” he declared. “Seriously, who’d want to be a king more than once? At least not without a few lives bouncing around the world as a tramp sailor or a belly-dancer first....”

Ja’far couldn’t help it. He started laughing. Because that was so _Simon_.

_Not Sinbad_ , the magician reflected. _At least not the Sinbad he had to be then, when the world wanted to cut our throats every day and Al-Thamen was handing out the knives. But if Sinbad had been able to just go to the South Seas, to build Sindria without having to be as vicious as everyone against him, if he could have escaped that horrible mess of the war, and everything that came with it_....

Sinbad might have been more like this. And that ached at him, all the joy that had been snatched from their grasp in that world - but he had it now. And it was worth fighting for.

“All right, that size looks like it works for you,” Simon reflected. “We’ll have to think about colors when we get a few more made; you actually look good in white, instead of washed out, so that’s-”

“What?” Ja’far asked, alarmed as Simon leaned right into his personal space. Simon was usually pretty good about that. And he hadn’t even had to stab the man to get the lesson across. “Mosquito?” He’d worked tiny charms to dissuade the little beasts on every window and door, but sometimes the bloodsuckers still got through.

“No.” Slow and deliberate, Simon reached out to tap the bridge of Ja’far’s nose. “You’ve been holding out on me. Since when do you have freckles?”

_What?_

Simon frowned, and turned him to face one of the wardrobe mirrors. “Look.”

Glass was polished and clear. This close he couldn’t miss what had been right under his nose. Or rather, across it.

_This... isn’t possible_....

“We’re going to be beating your fangirls off with a stick,” Simon mused.

_Fangirls? I don’t have fangirls. You have fangirls, not- argh_. Stunned, Ja’far rubbed at a chocolate-scatter of freckles he’d never had in this life. No, they were not coming off. “I need to talk to Aladdin.”

* * *

The good thing about roofs was, people just generally didn’t look up.

_Hot, though. Which I guess at least means things are normal_. Alan wiped off sweaty hands, and gripped magic-touched steel. Waited.

_Still hot_.

Alan took a deep breath, let it out. _Okay, free period doesn’t last forever, let’s do this_....

Determined, he reached his will into that pattern of magic.

_Just a little, want a small fire, not_ -

Flames leaped from his hand, a roaring lance at the sky.

_Tone. It. Down!_

Fingers clamped on steel, and the fire went out.

Alan sighed, and rubbed his head. _Too much weapon, not enough tool. I can pull magoi in from a candleflame, why can’t I just light that much_....

_I’m not hot_.

Startled, Alan put his free hand down on the school’s roof. Held his fingers there, incredulous, as skin that should have turned red and sore stayed cool and pink.

_It’s like the geyser. I can feel the heat, but I’m not hot_. Alan bit his lip, thinking that through with what he’d learned about magic so far. _Which means Amon’s actually working_ right now. _Taking heat in through me_.

_...Which means there’s magoi moving around me already. Like volatile fumes. And when I add to that - boom._

_How do I fix that?_

Turning the energy up and down obviously wasn’t working yet. He either had roaring flames or nothing. Like a hose turned up full blast, a circuit flipped on or off-

_Wait a sec_. Alan half-closed his eyes, poking that bit in his physics chapter. _Volts equal current times resistance. If volts were like water, it could be a lot of water just flowing slow over a dam... or the same amount pressed down into pinpoints that can etch steel. If I can’t change how much energy I’m dealing with - maybe I can_ focus _it_.

_Don’t think candleflame. Think sparkler_.

Burning, but not the loose flutter of a wax flame. Tight. Intense. Hissing like a snake, and _bright_ -

Metal shifted in his hand, an ancient dagger limned in crackling gold flame.

“Okay, closer,” Alan muttered. “Easy does it... don’t push, Aladdin said we were always careful with this. And careful means not tossing fire around like confetti. So....”

Ah, heck. What did anybody do with sparklers?

Grinning, Alan stood, and wrote his name in flames.

_Okay, this? Could be fun_.

Circles. Spirals. A few pithy comments in K’iche’ just to keep his hand in. Slowly tightening and loosening his focus, moving the flames from white-hot and thin to flowing gold and red, and back.

_I can do this. It’s not going to kill me_.

Better yet, he wasn’t going to kill anyone else. As long as he could control the flames.

_Though... part of it isn’t controlling things_ , Alan admitted, feeling that feather-touch of Amon’s presence every time the flames shifted. _The fire has to flow. Has to burn. What I need is to know where it’s going, so I know where to move_....

Moving felt good.

_Up, and first form; drift left and right as your opponent stabs, let him wear_ himself _out_....

_“Forget the cleaving blows, young prince. You don’t have the weight for them; you might never. Your mother was a slight lass, and even when your father was well, he fought with_ agility, _not strength. Leave the mountain-blows to a solid lump of a general like me. Be the sea wind, free and deadly. Like the cobra, find the chink in your enemy’s armor, and strike!”_

He lunged, flames lashing out like fangs.

_Barkak... Barkak would have liked that one_.

Alan blinked, and shook his head, letting the flames die back so he was holding simple steel again. _Barkak? Who was_ -

Hands over his own; large and callused and _patient_ , folding small fingers into the right grip as many times as it took. Not loving, not anything like his mother’s - but solid and confident, determined to pack a lifetime’s worth of swordplay into just a few years. A rock when everything else seemed too much; failure earned scowls, success a firm nod, and determination received the faint, pleased smile that made even the lessons on politics and manners bearable. Barkak might not have been kind, but he was consistent.

For a moment it was there, solid as memories of back alleys and hunting through court records for scraps of a story. The next....

_No! Please don’t go. Please let me keep this one_ -

Amon stirred.

_Help me_.

Fire in his head. Fire in his heart. Flames that spun themselves around that memory of warmth and reliability, thin as the gossamer magoi he’d pulled from candleflames....

Flickered away, cooling like a spent match.

Alan made himself breathe, slow and almost steady. Because he could still see those hands, like ghosts of memory; scarred and strong and _there_.

_Barkak. General of the Right. He taught... Alibaba._

_I miss him. I_....

Alan slapped a palm against his forehead, rubbing it back and forth until the stinging in his eyes stopped. _I need to get a grip, god, what time is it_ -

Behind one of the roof vents, something thumped.

_That? Was way too big to be a squirrel_.

* * *

“All right.” The voice was low, familiar, and somehow had learned a few overtones of Tiburon’s _I have sharpness, you will meet it_ edge. “Come out of there.”

_Drat_.

Morgan dragged Aladdin out with her; she’d been stalking Alan perfectly soundlessly until he’d swooped in. Literally swooped. She hadn’t known he could use the turban to fly without unfolding it.

Alan’s hand moved away from his sword, shoulders slumping in relief. “You guys. I didn’t think anyone else would be up here.”

“I wanted to be sure you were okay,” Morgan explained. “I didn’t know if anyone had checked the roof. And Callimachus knows we can fly.” She blushed, glancing away. “And the fire was pretty.”

“That was really cool!” Aladdin slipped out of her grip, eyes wide and eager. “I didn’t get to see you figure out Amon the first time. How’d you do that?”

“Physics.” Alan was blinking, as if he were just as stunned as Morgan felt. “What do you mean, how? I thought you knew about Djinn.”

“I know Djinn. It’s not the same thing,” Aladdin shrugged. “I’m a magi. I use spells, not Metal Vessels. And....”

Alan waited. Morgan eyed their younger yet more ancient friend, hoping he wasn’t going to try to dodge the question.

“The rukh looks a little different around you than what I remember.” Aladdin’s hand reached back to brush his wand. “I think you’d have to start over anyway. Amon must be as frustrated as you are.”

“He shouldn’t be.” Morgan walked closer to Alan, hands out to feel swirls of heat lingering in layers of air. “Uncle Tiburon will want to see that.” _And I want to see more of it_.

Alan had looked so happy, writing with fire. For those minutes she’d seen tension and worry lift, lost in the flow of, _this is me. This is what I do_.

That flow was why she wasn’t walking on mental tiptoes, after the nightmares they’d had. The flow was the mind’s best medicine. To do and be in that one moment, neither captive of the past nor fearful of the future - that was healing.

Not just for Alan. Seeing him with flames... it made her heart beat faster.

_“Right now, there aren’t any lords or commoners. This is a dungeon! Everyone has to fight for their lives here! Go home if you’re scared,_ boy! _”_

_“I tried to forget, but my body remembers....”_

_“You should do whatever you want, forever!”_

Flames and golden eyes and a smile Morgan wanted to wrap around her like a warm blanket. Whatever darkness had been in their pasts, those eyes had looked at her and seen not a monster, but a _friend_.

_He’s going to be okay. We’re going to be okay_.

Well. From that faint sound, they would be, so long as they got moving. “We need to get down from here,” Morgan told them. “My cousins said they might start early.”

“Who might?” Aladdin asked. Then whipped his head east, as the buzzing got loud enough for normal ears to hear.

“A drone?” Alan whistled. “Thanks. Definitely don’t need to get caught on camera again-”

“Uncle Simon say just brazen it out, no matter what magic we just did,” Aladdin said firmly. “I think it’s a good idea.”

Morgan cleared her throat, as humming engines got closer, a bobbing black array of turbines and a camera. “Ianatan says the problem isn’t the tech club. It’s-”

_“Loose!”_

Arrows whipped through the air as the drone ducked and wove, one or two shafts glancing off black armor.

“-The archery club,” Morgan finished. “Every year Tech tries to build more arrow-proof drones, and the archers get to be better shots at moving targets.” She tapped her toe, very gently, on the roof.

Alan eyed the obvious patches underfoot, and almost laughed. “Guess we better get the point before we get the points.” Cupped both hands around his mouth. “ _Oi!_ Robin Hood! Check behind your targets!”

_“What are you guys doing up there?”_

Morgan smirked, and took a deep breath. _“Fireworks!”_

The echoes rang off walls and the tower, startling up stray doves. For a moment, she thought the ball lightning at its tip flickered red.

_“Ow....”_

Morgan reddened, as Alan wiggled a finger in his ear and Aladdin sat down with swirly eyes. “...Oops?”

“Who needs Sound Magic?” Aladdin muttered, still wobbling.

“Who needs phones?” Alan was still smiling. “Come on, I found some good handholds down-”

Morgan watched him pick up his pack, and wrestled with temptation. _Brazen it out, huh?_

One jump. One snatch.

“-Aaaaaiiieeee!”

Grinning, Morgan leaped off the roof, Alan clinging for dear life.

_Oh yes. This is fun_.

* * *

_That kid is insane_.

Perched in a live oak with binoculars and her best camouflage gear, Phaenomena watched a drone get skewered by an arrow painted in deadly red and black, and hoped her scent-hiding tricks held up. _Then again, maybe it’s something in the water_. “Say again?”

“I said,” one of her chief contacts and more or less local ears to the ground drawled, “you’re not seriously going after someone in Hancock High, are you, sheila? Because while the brats in there might look all rich and soft targets, the _teachers_ are some of the scariest things this side of an angry saltie.”

Phaenomena shifted minutely against gray bark; there were an incredible variety of ants down here and she still wasn’t sure which ones bit when grumpy and which ones were just plain homicidal. “You’ve met them?”

“ _Everyone’s_ met Cavins.” Jeff’s eye-roll was clear through the phone, dramatic sigh and all. “Y’ can’t go near the place without spotting purple hair. S’pose that’s a good thing. Like an anemone. ‘Here I am, I’m dangerous to your life, limb, an’ sanity, so bugger off’.” Another sigh. “Seriously, m’lady, that place is weird as a rugby bat. It’s not something y’ can put a finger on, it’s just... _odd_. Hollywood. You know. Cavins is flat-out stark staring _bonkers_ , an’ no one seems to mind. Then again, kids seem to come out of the place all right and knowing their three R’s, and that’s a patch on a lot of places. _And_ he runs off the predators. Which, good on him. Plenty of stuff that’ll mess a body up in our world, don’t need some rat bastard chomping brats and starting another Satanic panic. Gets so a man can’t go out looking for a Skunk Ape on a Saturday night without being hauled over by a cranky officer of the law.”

“Runs off the predators?” Phaenomena said curiously. She’d seen enough news reports to know how easy it could be for someone with ill intent to grab the usual minor. Not that their targets were any _usual_ minors. “How does he know they’re there?”

“Follows the trail of banana peels and open manholes, most like,” Jeff said wryly. “Go over the Hancock line when you’re not asked in, and bad things happen to you. I know a few blokes who’d give their eyeteeth to know how Cavins manages it... if it’s magic. Can’t be sure. A lot of it’s no more magic than a few instructors with sharp eyes and sharper blades. You go to a con sometime, you can see Tiburon demonstrate what he can do with a katana. It’s enough to make a man fear for his three-piece service.”

Phaenomena stifled the urge to snicker.

“But seriously, lass,” Jeff went on, “that place isn’t worth the effort of a guy like your Magister. Someone with real magic, not just a few might-works like me and the lads? There’s nothing _there_ at Hancock. Why are you even _poking_ that termite nest, eh?”

_A bluebird magician and a Fire Prince_ , Phaenomena thought grimly.

Because damn it, crazy as it sounded, she couldn’t ignore what she’d seen with her own eyes. Yesterday, and just now.

_That kid was_ playing _with fire. Like... like magoi that’d take Magister Callimachus a week to gather was just something to burn through in an afternoon_.

That amount of power in the hands of a teenager. Worse, in the hands of three teenagers, given the Red Lioness girl and... Ala’-adin. Whatever he was. It gave her the shivers, even in this heat.

_What is he?_

Even the Magister didn’t know. But some of the oldest, rarest stories of the Fire Prince had more than just his Red Lioness lover by his side. They painted in a young boy, a young _magician_ , with hair as dark as wine and sky. A magi, who’d saved the Prince when he was still lost and unknown, and guided him to waking the fire of the gods.

_The Light in Dark Places_ , Phaenomena thought, reviewing what little the ancient lore had in common. _The royal son who descends into the Underworld to save those lost to darkness and hate. The warrior against Al-Thamen, who stood against their hate to the last. An Orpheus who actually pulled it off... except for the last time_.

Because there the legends agreed: the Fire Prince and his beloved had gone into the darkness one final time, and never returned.

_But they will return_ , storytellers vowed. _Darkness was sealed away in darkness, and the Fire Prince still walks the long road in the shadows. Yet one day, when our need is greatest, flames shall light the sky. And the Fire Prince and his beloved will rise, to lead those lost back to the light_.

Classic Sleeping King story. Phaenomena could name a half-dozen of them with her eyes closed. And yet....

_That kid broke Fomoire chains_.

Because that was one of the odder parts of the legend, if you dug at it. Slavery had been part of the ancient world no matter where you went. Even the Sinbad tales told of slaves in the arena of gladiators, and worse things.

_The Fire Prince broke her chains, and swore she would never be a slave again_.

Phaenomena eyed an orange-and-brown ant legging its way across her arm, and carefully flicked it off. Jeff was waiting for an answer. And he deserved an honest one. Just not all of it. “It looks like one of the students there might be unexpectedly talented.”

“Roight,” Jeff drawled. “And it’s nothing to do with the fact that where the rest of us see great glaring blobs of pain, you see a bloody huge ball of fun.”

“You know me so well,” Phaenomena smirked. Her battle with the Fire-Mouse had been abruptly called by flying carpet, and trying to play it smart with the Fomoire chains had meant she hadn’t gotten the chance to pit herself against the Red Lions in the school. Now - well, the Magister’s plans came first, but she itched to get her hands on someone who’d try to fight back. “So which of Hancock’s instructors are the dangerous ones?”

* * *

“Whoof.” Aladdin leaned on one of the biology classroom desks in the quiet after school, looking down at the various diagrams of brains and nerves Ja’far had spread out to illustrate his points. “This is... wow. More complicated than magic.”

_Good_ , Ja’far thought, relieved. _If he knows it’s tricky, he’ll be a little less ready to rush in_. “If you think about it, it has to be. Our brains are how we _do_ magic. How could we learn to command the rukh if our tools for using it weren’t up to the challenge?”

“Although commanding your own magoi can be even trickier than that,” Simon observed, seated on top of Ja’far’s desk to get a good look at everything they were doing. And provide moral support. Or so he claimed.

_Morals. Right_ , Ja’far thought dryly. Though he wouldn’t deny that having Simon there when Aladdin had looked into him with Solomon’s Wisdom had been the only thing keeping him from screaming and running out the door. He was a creature of shadows, he knew it, and Aladdin’s rukh had been so bright....

Simon cleared his throat, bringing Ja’far back to the present. “According to Ja’far,” Simon said thoughtfully, “once a magician figures out a spell, another magician can cast it from the list of rukh commands, with a minimum of tweaking.”

“Pretty much,” Aladdin agreed, shoulders straightening with relief at being on familiar ground. “It depends on what your primary element is, and what the spell uses. But once you’ve got the base spell, you can get something to work.” He tilted his head, curious. “Magoi manipulation’s different?”

“It involves a lot more biofeedback,” Simon agreed, light glinting off his earrings like flecks of diamond. “It’s like... hmm. Say magic is like swimming. Everyone learns the same strokes, or how to float, and you do it in much the same way. It’s muscles and will, and every human body has those. Magoi manipulation is more like controlling your own heartbeat.”

Blue eyes widened. “You can do that?”

“As a matter of fact, I can,” Simon admitted. “I’d rather not talk about it in public. People end up thinking the strangest things when you say you can slow your own heart down, and if they’re going to spread rumors I’d rather they were wondering about whose bed I was in this week. That doesn’t hurt anyone.”

“Doesn’t hurt _them_ ,” Ja’far said, half under his breath. “I still think I should stab a few reporters. On general principles.” He touched a diagram of the brainstem. “But it’s that heartbeat level of manipulation we need to talk about. Because between Baal’s wyverns adding to our magoi, and the influence of the dungeon itself so that everyone’s started remembering bits of who they were, what they could do... that’s manipulating the mind and soul at a very deep level, Aladdin. I’ve had experience with - something like that. It had side effects. I really hope Baal knows what he’s doing.”

Aladdin blinked, and looked at him, in a way even more intense than the light of Solomon’s Wisdom. “Did someone hurt you?”

“They didn’t mean to.” Because it was true; they hadn’t meant his younger self harm. It’d just - happened. “It’s a custom in the Magnos Clan. To use the rukh to reclaim ancient memories of those who used magic, and save spells lost to time and death.” Ja’far paused, and made himself shrug. “They thought the past life they would find would be another magician. It always had been before.”

“But you were a Household Member. Not a magician.” Aladdin was just a little pale. “You were used to using your magoi the way Simon does, the way Alan does... _ow_.”

“And we think it’s that _ow_ Alan is running up against,” Simon stepped in. “If I understand what’s going on, the Magnos spell brings back ancient memories by awakening those bits of the rukh that carry them. A Djinn works with the rukh and magoi of his king, meaning since Amon is most familiar with Alibaba, he’s having a similar effect, resonating with those memories. On top of that, Baal’s thrown even more magoi at us, which is acting like mystical superglue-”

“Superglue?” Ja’far sputtered.

“Do you have a better description?” Simon arched a majestic violet brow. “It’s filling in the cracks and binding together who we were with who we _are_. And not always by paying attention to what bits ought to go where.”

Ja’far clapped a hand to his forehead in disbelief. “Superglue.”

“Am I wrong?”

“I wish you were,” Ja’far muttered, and lifted his hand to look Aladdin in the eye. “He has a point. Between the dungeon and the wyverns, the awakened rukh is all tangled up in our current magoi. We can’t separate them out.”

“But....” Aladdin’s fingers traced over layman’s neurology, daunted. “They’re still all you, right?”

“They are,” Ja’far allowed, “but memories work by links. That scent is _fish at the docks_ , which leads to the fleet’s in, which leads to how did the day’s catch go, were there trading vessels spotted, were there pirates? One to another to another, like links in a chain, threads on a spiderweb. The magic affecting us is adding extra links _randomly_. Which means we can’t always access them when we need to, and sometimes we access them when we don’t want to.”

“You mean... like Alan remembering Kouen, and what he did to Balbadd.” Aladdin winced. “But that’s over-”

“Yes and no.” Ja’far kept his voice steady. “It’s not like Solomon’s Wisdom. When you look at the rukh for answers, you may not understand what you see, but you at least know you’re looking at someone else’s memory. When the spell - when a past life is revived,” damn it, he _would_ say this, it was his friends at risk, “there’s no control. There’s no barrier between you and the past. It’s all one insane indigestible _lump_ , of everything you see dumped into everything you think you _are_. And - when the memories are strong....”

Simon’s hand gripped his shoulder. “It’s a mess,” the principal said firmly.

Aladdin nodded, determined. “So there’s two problems. We have to get the pieces into the right places, and....” He hesitated, thinking. “If you drop a rock into water, it splashes. But if you can lower it in slowly - then you just get ripples.”

Simon chewed that over. Glanced at Ja’far, brows arched in silent question.

“Buffer the memories, somehow?” Ja’far turned that idea over in his mind. “The clan spell takes a lot of power. The only way to make it work, even with a group of magicians, is to form the magoi into a needle that pierces between the past and the present-”

“Ja’far.” Aladdin’s smile had just a trace of patient, impish glee. “I’m a _magi_.”

_Oh_.

He had to lean on his own desk, letting that sink in. A magi casting the clan spell. All the power in the world, if they needed it.

“We can rewrite the spell.” Ja’far straightened, looking at Simon in silent wonder. “It would take some time, but - there are ways it could be made gentler. Like pressing a sponge, instead of stabbing with a needle... no, that’s not saying it right-”

Simon held up empty hands; _stop_. “Write it down and put your heads together. You can fix it?”

“I think we can make it safer,” Ja’far said cautiously. “We are piercing the veil death and time have laid between lives. I doubt there would be any way to make it safe.”

“Safer is good.” Simon gripped his shoulder again. “As for misplaced pieces, I think we should treat it like any other mental shock. Establish a routine, one that uses magic and weapons at one time and modern skills at another, so we can let things fall into place on their own. Which would be a lot easier if we could find Callimachus and beat some sense into his head....”

Ja’far very carefully did not finger his knives. He was working on glass-shard amulets that would warn their wearers if the alchemist came near, and he’d managed to set up mystical tripwires that would grab, hold, and possibly eviscerate Callimachus if he crossed onto Hancock land. Because anyone who’d unleashed magoi-draining chains on an entire school to take down one target did not deserve the benefit of the doubt. Though Alan and Aladdin would probably try.

_Alan might even succeed_ , Ja’far reflected. _I don’t_ want _Simon to have to kill. Better if it’s me_.

Better yet if it were none of them. Forensic science had come a long way since the days of dropping corpses off a Partevian wharf. If they could convince Callimachus to just _go away_ \- it would be better. Really.

_We’ll see. One way or another_.

“Anyway,” Simon sighed. “That’s two difficulties potentially dealt with. The problem is, we have a third.”

“We do?” Aladdin’s brows drew down, worried. “What?”

Simon’s brows went up. Then he shrugged, and gave a showman’s wave of hands, presenting Ja’far. “I actually think the freckles are quite becoming. But apparently Ja’far’s objecting to having even more reasons to beat young ladies off with a stick-”

“Dealing with smitten underage girls is _not the problem_ ,” Ja’far gritted out, face burning. “The problem is biology.”

Simon’s face was almost innocent. “Yes, well, when you’re dealing with teenagers the problem usually _is_ biology-”

_“Sin!”_

Ja’far saw his friend start, and blanched. _Oh Solomon. What did I just_ -

“It’s all right, you know.” Simon smiled, just a little bittersweet. “I don’t mind.”

“I do,” Ja’far stated. “You’re you, Simon. I never wanted you to be anyone else.” Except when he was alone and lonely among family turned strangers; but that didn’t matter. “Aladdin. I don’t know what Ugo taught you about biology. On this world we only found it out fairly recently. But certain tissues in the body are related, and what affects one has implications for what’s happening to another. In this case, your skin is related to your eyes, and your brain-”

“And your hair?” Simon was leaning closer to him, almost off-balance on the desk.

“Yes, why- Simon!” Ja’far batted at the hand ruffling his hair. “If you want to pet someone-”

“Ja’far.” Simon’s gaze was serious. “Stand still. Aladdin?”

“...Oh.” Aladdin stood on tiptoes to get a good look, then sank back down into his sandals. “Um. I didn’t do it?”

“Do what?” Ja’far demanded, trying not to get too distracted by Simon’s hand in his hair. The man was just... _clingy_ would imply Simon couldn’t get along without touching people. He could. But he saw no reason not to touch, even when various pointy things had been aimed at him.

Simon gave him a deliberate grin. “I’ve been accused of turning people’s hair white, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen it.”

_Urk_.

There were little mirrors in the lab, the better to angle light into bits of plant or other things they were studying. It didn’t take long to find what Simon had seen.

_Not just freckles. White roots. That’s_.... Ja’far put the mirror down before he dropped it. “You had more formal magical education than I have.” He tried to rein in the glare he turned on Aladdin. Really. “What is going on?”

“I really wish Sphintus was here.” Aladdin closed his eyes, putting one hand out to let rukh flutter in, land, and sing to him. “I _think_ I know what it is, sort of, but....”

Hands clenched, Ja’far tried to listen himself. It wasn’t his best skill, though his clan had done their best to teach him what they could. All he could hear around himself was the usual _minor healing, setting things right_ that the rukh fussed with when he’d been injured. That was one advantage of being a Life magician; even if you didn’t know you were in a hazardous environment - like, oh, say, being a youngster in _Chernobyl_ \- the rukh perceived the danger, and helped guide your magoi to keep you alive.

“Huh.” Aladdin nodded, cupping a few silvery motes in his hands. “Here. Listen to them.”

Ja’far wiped his fingers on his sleeves, then held his hands above Aladdin’s singers.

_Alive-and-well_ , birdlike sparkles sang. Which didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know-

“Patience.” Simon’s hand rested on his shoulder. “What do you tell your students when they’re banging their heads against something that doesn’t work?”

_Calm down_ , Ja’far told himself. _Take a breath. Look at the problem again_.

Or in this case, listen.

_Alive-and-well_....

Notes _inside_ notes; subtle harmonics that built on each other, listened to each other, pushed and gently pulled and transmuted _what-was_ to _what-should-be_. Only the music they were building wasn’t the life-song he’d known since he was born. Not quite. He could still hear himself in it, but weaving through the melody were the drumbeats of an older song.

“You miss who you were,” Aladdin said quietly. “It sounds like you miss it a lot.”

_Not good_. “Who I was,” Ja’far said deliberately, “was someone who’d been half-starved and _almost_ completely poisoned for the first eleven years of my life. Even after decades in Sindria, I still had a lot of toxins in my system.” Partly because it was habit, ingesting mithridatic doses to keep up his resistance just in case some damn idiot or Al-Thamen dupe managed to sneak poison into the palace. In which case at least one General of Sindria would be alive to _murder them all_. “Bringing that back would be damaging, and potentially _suicidal_. I don’t think humans on this world have half the poison tolerance of a Sham Lash _infant_ -”

“Do you know how the poisons work?” Aladdin’s eyes were grave, and for once completely serious.

“I- yes.” Like no one in this world, or the last one. He’d been the chief of the Sham Lash. As Simon might put it, you didn’t earn that rank by collecting boxtops.

“Will you let me look at that?” Aladdin swallowed. “I know... it won’t be pretty. But I think we can fix this so you _won’t_ get hurt.” He lifted his hands a little, so they were both touching the singing motes. “I don’t even think it will be that hard. They’re trying to fix you. We just need to make sure they’re careful about how they do it.”

_Fix me_. When Simon had tried so hard to convince him he wasn’t broken. Just different.

_I won’t give that up. Not ever_.

“Zmiinyi,” Ja’far got out. “If you’re going to talk the rukh into anything - my birth name is Zmiinyi.”

He could hear Simon hold his breath.

_Simon speaks enough Ukrainian to get by. He knows “poisonous serpent”_.

Aladdin nodded, as if he knew exactly how rare that trust was.

_He’s a magi. He might_.

“I really liked Kulkulcan,” Aladdin told him. “Sphintus’ cobra. If he ever bit someone for _real_ , Sphintus would have had to work fast, or they’d be dead. But because he was that venomous, he didn’t have to bite anyone. All he had to do was spread his hood, and people got smart and got out of there.” His smile was bright; not an optimistic child, but someone who knew he was dealing with danger, and trusted it to stay its hand. “That’s you. I think it’s a good name.”

From the way Simon had started breathing again behind them, he thought it was, too.

“So,” Ja’far assayed, “how do we- No. Wait.” Because now he _knew_ where he’d heard those odd harmonics before. In a crackle of hidden flames, as he’d looked over a scorched soul. “Alan-”

“First rule of in-flight emergencies.” Simon thumped off the desk and bumped his shoulder. “Put the oxygen mask on yourself _first_.”

“First we fix _you_ ,” Aladdin agreed. “What’s happening to you _is_ you. It’s only a problem because the different pieces are all mixed up and pulling different directions instead of working together like they could. Once we help get that straightened out, your rukh should be able to handle it from there. Alan... part of that’s Amon. And I’m going to need your help.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vipera nikolskii, aka the “forest-steppe adder”. Venomous, but like most adders they tend to be shy and only bite when cornered.
> 
> CI - Confidential informant. Not what a reporter wants to be considered, at all....
> 
> “1001 Nights” by Chipz. Fits the more upbeat parts of the Magi adventures to a T!


	11. Sparks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If fire is life... then playing with fire is a lot scarier than it looks.

“You’re going to have to move me to emergency contact only. Something’s come up.”

Helping Morgan and Aunt Shionne tally up the class weapons by number and condition, Alan glanced at Tiburon. The swordsman stalked the gym, phone gripped in a carefully gentle hand, and rolled green eyes at whoever was on the other end, patiently miffed. Either whoever he was talking to was being deliberately thick, or Tiburon couldn’t figure out how Tyler had managed to bend a spearhead into a corkscrew either. Even with magical electrical shark-eel arc welding involved.

“No, nothing like that mess with the leeches... look, Simon needs me.” Tiburon paused, toes tapping the repaired floor. “What do you mean, _which Simon?_ How many Simons have stripped you to your skivvies in poker _and_ free climbing- Yes, _of course_ he was cheating, you said you knew how to cheat better. So no, you don’t want to get involved. This is _Simon_. You remember the last time you met Simon, don’t you?”

From the way Aunt Shionne had just clapped her hands over Morgan’s ears, and the girl herself was hiding a mortified giggle, yes, whoever was on the other end definitely did.

Tiburon scowled at the phone. “What do you mean, _is he still alive_ , of course he’s - no, he’s not in jail! No, it’s nothing like- oh, ha-bloody-ha. _Yes_ , he’s crazy. But you know perfectly well he’s still in charge of his school, and he’s completely responsible with his students... no. No, you stop laughing _right now_ , damn it. He _is_ responsible. That’s why I’m going to be less available. They need my help and I’m going to be busy teaching.” A darker scowl. “ _That_ is none of your business. They’re teenagers. And I have a nondisclosure agreement.” Tiburon _hmph_ ed. “ _Yes_ , one that’s not yours. They make films, for goodness’ sake! If I leak details before something’s officially released, I won’t get to play here anymore.”

“And that would just suck,” Alan said, half to himself. Because okay, today’s gym classes had been a little less hairy than yesterday’s. Everyone knew to keep an eye out for basking dragons, and with Aunt Shionne stepping in for half the day, the four dungeon-ready instructors had been able to lean on her steady calm and keep nervous students aimed in mostly the same direction; like Malachy was doing right now with Dougal, Ianatan, and some of the less panicky seniors. Something about getting enough for crabcakes. Alan wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Bad enough to know he was going into that tower _on purpose_ , to face the blood and the monsters and the screaming....

Which, somehow, hadn’t been so bad today. Though that was partly due to the fact that anyone who’d totally freaked out yesterday got to head to the regular gym class with Coach Grant, no questions asked. A smaller group was easier to keep out of trouble. Well, a little easier. Given anyone who’d stayed was at least trying to stick a tentative toe in trouble’s general direction.

For a moment, Tiburon’s face was deadpan. “Sorry, not tempting enough. I get to blow things up here, too.” He sighed, and pressed fingers to his forehead. “Look, I know those overgrown adrenaline junkies of yours would never believe it, but I really am happy with what I’m doing here. And hopefully in a few months some of the footage will be available for pre-release, and all your maniacs will see why I’m happy. All right? Good. _Good day_.”

Shionne waited until he’d closed the phone. “You seemed a little short with him.”

“I was,” Tiburon admitted. “I have to settle this _now_ , before someone calls me at oh-dark-hundred and tracks me down chasing loose wyverns-”

“Don’t touch,” Shionne said calmly.

Tiburon snatched his hand down from the steel loop in one ear. “It’s _distracting_.” He sighed, looking over weapons sorted into fine, salvageable, and in need of replacement. “Speaking of wyverns.”

“If Simon can afford to hire me on part time, I’ll be here.” Shionne smiled at her niece. “I can’t let my family have all the fun without me.”

Wordless, Morgan hugged her.

Shionne stroked her hair, hugging back. “We’re not leaving you, kitten. Promise.” Dark-lashed eyes glanced at Alan. “You are walking my niece home.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Alan agreed, just a little nervous. Because that was trust, that was _being relied on_ , and outside of his mother and Sister Thomasina....

With his background, most people just didn’t say, _this is precious, keep it safe_.

And Tiburon was grinning at him, as Shionne ruffled his hair. Uh-oh.

“Don’t play with the rings,” Shionne reminded the swordsman, heading out the door. “They’ll heal before you know it.”

“Yes, Mum,” Tiburon sighed, yanking down the offending hand. Slid a glance sideways, at his student’s bare ears.

“Don’t even think about it,” Alan warned his smirking instructor, almost feeling his earlobes cringe. “Don’t you know what they tell cops? Come back with the same number of holes you started with.”

And now Morgan was blinking at him. That ought to be illegal.

“Fair enough,” Tiburon allowed, smirk softening into an oddly gentle smile. “I’m still a bit jumpy about the whole thing, and they’ve been going on about adopting me in for _years_ \- might actually have been more subtle if they’d put up neon signs. Just realize, they wouldn’t say it if they didn’t mean it. They’re such _good_ people. It’s like they believe living up to personal honor is just something an adult _does_. Like breathing. The thought that they actually want a red-handed shadow-stalker like me... I should pinch myself, right? And if I have a hard time believing it, you ought to get at least a few weeks for the Stockholm Syndrome- er, to get used to the idea.”

Alan gave him a flat look.

“I’ve seen a few of the pictures,” Tiburon said, more seriously. “You really did look good with those earrings....” He trailed off, thoughtful. “You haven’t seen them?”

_Hell no_. Not that Morgan hadn’t offered. But last night, it’d just been too close. “I just asked for a few of the dragon,” Alan shrugged. “So, do you think you guys and the principal will settle on new gym stuff for the dungeon, or just let people show up in whatever they think won’t get ripped to shreds? I think the word’s getting around that gym shorts won’t cut it, and high heels are definitely out... what?”

“Like trying to pin down water,” Tiburon muttered. “Ja’far warned me, but....” He frowned, and glanced at both of them. “Did anyone else have weird dreams last night?”

_Damn it_ , Alan cursed silently. Because Morgan had just shivered, and there was no way he could ignore that. “If by _weird_ you mean something you could port right over to the Horror section and snug it in on the shelf-” Oh man, he was _trying_ to brush it off, he was, but.... “It was not a good night.”

Morgan’s gaze went from him to Tiburon, quietly serious. “Do you see friends dying in your dreams, too?”

“Sometimes,” Tiburon admitted. “Though last night was-” He hesitated, fingers absently combing back dark hair. “Alan? If you see a swordsman with a bunch of shadow-clones, pull back and _fry_ the bastard. There’s having confidence in your own abilities, and then there’s being mobbed by idiots almost as good as you are.”

_Ouch_. Alan swallowed, and nodded.

“Easy enough to say,” Tiburon said, half to himself. “But do you think you can pull it off for real? I saw you with the candle the other day, but we haven’t practiced using fire in a fight.”

Alan hesitated, glancing around the echoing gym as Morgan deliberately sat on the sidelines. His teacher had a point. He hadn’t tried directing Amon’s fire to do anything besides sparkles. Yet. Except for the bit with the dragon, and - well, if Phaenomena wasn’t a dragon, he was pretty sure that was only because the rukh had slipped up somewhere.

_But I did it. Even if I was trying not to think. Can’t be that much harder while I’m thinking. Right?_

“You think you could,” Tiburon said thoughtfully. “Show me.”

Morgan was still as a cat about to pounce. Alan gave her a faint smile; _relax, I’ll be okay_.

Well. Probably okay. They weren’t going to try to kill each other. They were just going to... try some unconventional moves.

_And nobody’s watching. Except people who already know_.

Alan raised his hand to grip curved steel, feeling a faint tickle of other-curiosity. And the oddest sense of _stiffness_.

_...Right. Djinn of decorum. This is a spar, not a life-or-death fight. Formal. Teacher and student. And - we’re supposed to be partners. Working together. I should be polite_.

He remembered the incantation Aladdin had used. He could sense it, floating in the back of his mind.

_Sacred servant of decorum and austerity...._

He could hear it. Almost taste it. But his throat seemed frozen. The words didn’t feel _right_.

_Oh hell. Damn it, what do I do... head down, take a breath, think!_

The words hung there, mocking him. Like an unbreakable wall in his head-

_Since when do you break a wall to get past it?_

So the incantation was an obstacle. So what? The whole world was an obstacle course, for those with eyes to see. Every wall, every alley, every storm drain had its own quirks that made it seem impossible. Yet if he paid attention, if he listened to the world - the impossible unrolled like Aladdin’s turban, showing him how to fly.

_The incantation’s not the right way. Not this time_.

It didn’t fit. As though he were trying to do a flat-out wall run up and over chain link. All that’d get him was flat on his face.

_You don’t_ run _on chain link,_ Alan thought, gripping steel. _You climb it... or if you’re lucky, you pull a bounce off two alley walls, and a vault clears the top_.

_I’m doing this wrong. Somehow_.

_...Amon? Do you... I know, I know, you’re serious power, you take on dragons - do you not want to spar? Because I kind of need to learn what I’m doing. Is that okay? What’s going on?_

Stiffness - shifted. Warm. Almost flexing.

_Like a hand, ready to clasp_.

Knees locked to keep from shaking, Alan reached toward that sense of _other_.

_Here I am. What do you want? What do we need?_

Words surfaced, shimmering in his mind like a painted scroll. Not Tran, but curved swoops of letters he knew, if only in dream; words that danced and spun in his heart like a laugh, like a battle-cry....

_“Let’s go, Amon!”_

Green eyes went wide as steel and cord shimmered in flames, reshaping into an antique dagger. But Tiburon shook it off, and arched a skeptical brow. “Are you seriously going to take a knife to a swordfight?”

_“It’s not the first time.”_

Ah hell. He hoped Tiburon understood that. Because the world was tilted just so slightly askew again. Not as bad as it’d been with the dragon, but even a touch of that crazy level of confidence was unsettling.

_Focus. I’ve used fire in a fight. Means I_ will _use fire if things get hairy. And I can’t count on reflex to get it right. So... time to do it on purpose_.

_First step, fire_.

Alan focused on that sense of reaching, feeding power to the seal on the blade-

_Whoomph_.

_Huh. Sounded like a Bunsen burner, a little. Wonder if magoi really does act like a volatile gas- focus!_

The dagger in his hand blazed like a torch; Alan took a breath, noting that no longer odd sense of _warmth_ where there should be scorching heat. He’d have to watch that, if he ever ended up handling flames without Amon.

“Cute trick.” Tiburon raised a brow; intrigued, and just a smidge cocky. “Can you make it do anything else?”

“Working on that,” Alan muttered. A sweep to his right left a fading arc of fire in its wake, as he’d halfway expected-

_Clang!_

It was a little unnerving, watching Tiburon grin at him across fire and steel. Almost as unsettling as seeing that he’d reflexively braced the dagger against his instructor’s sword, fingers untouched by leaping flames.

“Well. Didn’t go out when you parried.” Tiburon disengaged with a ringing slide of steel, and circled. “And it’s not hurting your reaction time. I was worried about that, given what Ja’far’s said about magoi being tied up with the mind.” He paused, weight shifting subtly from one foot to the other. “But can you keep it up?”

_Good question_ , Alan reflected. _Didn’t have to handle the dragon for more than a minute_....

Tiburon’s toes pressed down.

_Wait. Wait until_ -

Steel lunged.

Alan inhaled, leaping light and up and _away_ , using his spin to glance the blade aside rather than block it. Fire flickered around the impact, yellow to licks of cooler red, curling up almost to Tiburon’s guard.

And they were parted again, and Tiburon was already moving in again, and it was just like sparring in the salle. Except for the traces of black marking where he rolled, blade almost skimming the floor.

“Not a liability,” Tiburon judged, still not breathing hard. “Good. Not really adding anything, either, though. Outside of intimidation. Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with that....”

“I know. I _know_.” And damn it, that was frustrating, because-

_Because it’s magic. And magic’s supposed to be more than just extra flash and oo, scary. There_ has _to be more_.

He leapt back to think, keeping a wary eye on the sword-happy instructor. But Tiburon seemed inclined to let him open the range. For now.

_Of course he is. That’s what he said - fry things from a distance_.

Question was how. According to Aladdin, magic wasn’t just commands to the rukh. You had to have a good idea what you wanted the commands to _do_.

_Less straight computer programming, more like moving a game avatar_ , Alan thought. _So... what can I see doing with fire?_

Well, the fireball was a fantasy classic. But he’d never liked the idea much. Rolling, engulfing fire like a gas explosion, that swallowed up everything in its path and by all rights should suck all the oxygen out of your tunnel? Messy.

_Messy like a gunfight. Swords are supposed to be_ elegant _. Like a Jedi in the middle of blasters._

Huh. There was an idea. As long as Amon didn’t sputter too much at being compared to Obi-Wan Kenobi.

_I already have fire right here. If I could just move that from on the blade to where I want it_....

Blade up, Alan slashed, trying to ignore the yammering voice in his head about throwing fire at another human being. At this range, Tiburon ought to have enough room to duck.

...Not that it mattered. The arc of flame steel left behind drifted maybe three inches towards its target, then guttered out.

“Hmm.” Tiburon stood unflinching, guard loose and easy. “It does _look_ impressive.”

_Great. I get a comedian for an instructor... could be worse, could be the principal watching. Argh. How do I make this work?_

Though he’d at least proved one thing; the fire didn’t have to be in constant contact with Amon to burn.

_Runs out of fuel fast, though. So - I need to get it where it’s going before it runs out of magoi_. Alan frowned, thinking. _Great, it’s the rocket problem. How much fuel can you load before your fuel weight is more than what you can lift? Only with added bonus, how much magoi can you load without passing out?_

Well, they might not be energy-efficient, but the point with rockets was that they did work. Alan narrowed his eyes, thinking through the image; fire narrowed to a razor arc at its forefront, a wide edge at the rear blasting the rest into motion-

_Now_.

A slash of flames, hurtling toward Tiburon like a javelin of lava. Alan whirled through two more, cutting the air to send flames the most likely directions to catch his teacher’s dodge....

_Still too slow_.

Oh, they made it all the way to where the swordsman stood, but not as tight slashes. Pale blue flames spread into yellow-orange curves of fire; cooler, and slow as a campfire burned to embers. Tiburon kept a wary eye on them, but a few casual steps and one slight duck to save his hair, and they were gone.

_Which just goes to show that I’m no rocket scientist_. Alan stared at shimmering air where wisps of flame had been, nerves almost thrumming with frustration. _If I could just get out of here and run, just a for a little while, find some walls to bounce off of and think_ -

But he couldn’t. Go out alone, when Phaenomena and Callimachus had to know who they were looking for by now? He’d either end up dead, or bait.

_Aladdin thinks they won’t catch him twice. But they wouldn’t have to catch him, would they? Not if they had one of us_.

So no. He couldn’t run alone. No matter how much his nerves thrummed like wires drawn too tight.

_Don’t think about it. Think about the problem. Damn it, what am I doing wrong? I hit a dragon further away than this_.

On the other hand, that first cast of fire in Baal’s dungeon had pretty much flattened him. Maybe this was the best he could do.

_No. I don’t believe that_.

Amon might be inhuman, uninvited, and terrifying, but so far the Djinn hadn’t lied to him. They’d fought Phaenomena together. They’d made one dragon back off long enough for Aladdin to talk Baal into letting them retreat, and even if he really didn’t appreciate the part of yesterday where Amon had made a second dragon feel like _not a problem_ -

If he looked at it cold-blooded and straight on, the dragon _hadn’t_ been a problem.

_Amon ought to know his own power_ , Alan thought, feeling a pulse of frustrated heat in the hilt and trying not to flinch at it. _If he’s fed up with this - we should be able to do better._

_Forget a slash, then. Maybe something more concentrated? Less rocket, more railgun_ -

That slice gathered fire like a slingbolt of lava, hurtling down to the tip to launch with the crackle of burning pines.

Steel swatted it.

Alan took a shaky breath, as flames splashed off Tiburon’s blade and faded away. _This isn’t working. Why? Aladdin said you have to picture what you’re doing with the rukh. Why can’t I see something that will work?_

“There’s something to be said for variety,” Tiburon reflected. “But if your head’s not in the game-”

Morgan wrapped her arms around her knees, staring at them both with predatory intensity. “Why isn’t this like the roof?”

Alan glanced at her, feeling that gaze like acid knotting his shoulders. That wasn’t obvious? “That was just playing.”

Morgan nodded, brows drawn down as if he were the one not getting it. “But it worked.”

Okay, maybe it wasn’t obvious. “It wasn’t serious,” Alan said firmly, trying to calm the nerves that wanted to send him hurtling out of the room. _Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t think of the fire going out, and falling_.... “I wasn’t trying to aim at anything.” Or _not_ aim at something specific. Tiburon was too damn flammable, assuming he ever managed something the man couldn’t bat away like a slow fly. And they were trying for something that would be useful in a fight. Which meant not sparklers, and not a cataclysm of fire he could barely yank back under control before it drank him dry. “I went up there because I thought _no one_ would be crazy enough to be anywhere near me. If I’d known you were up there,” _that anyone was, that they were watching_ , “I wouldn’t have done it.”

“But you could try-”

_“No I can’t!”_

Because the roof had been _feeling_ , not thinking. And maybe feeling was just fine when it came to drawing pretty lights on the sky, but in the middle of a spar? Where people could get hurt? In a _flammable_ building? If he couldn’t think his way through exactly what he was going to do, he had no business setting off so much as a spark-

_Oh hell_. The room was fuzzing at the edges as Alan’s breath hitched. _No, damn it, not now! Not when I had a chance to start over. They’ve never seen me flip out, they don’t know_....

Because a missing father and an unwed mother and being too smart for his own good might all have brought him way too much grief, those were just sins. And sins could grudgingly, painfully, be forgiven... if never quite forgotten. But there was one weak and cowardly thing no one in all of Massachusetts could forgive.

When he was angry, he cried.

_Have to get out of this. Fast. But nobody’s listening to me..._.

“Play,” Alan repeated in disbelief; choking the words out around the knot in his throat, feeling his hands tremble. “You want me to play. With _this?_ ”

Fire roared around him, surrounding him like a dust devil straight from hell. It swirled, and snarled, and licked up and out toward the gym rafters, tugging at the bounds of his will to let it reach out, consume, _burn_....

_Stop. Stop now_.

Flames collapsed and vanished, edged steel shimmering back to a far more innocuous multi-tool. Alan draped the cord back over his head, determined not to let his hands shake. Not to let the burning in his eyes seep out in that betraying splash of salt water. “I can’t _play_ with this. Not with anyone anywhere near me.” He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t.

_I broke my word_.

He’d told Tiburon he could do this.

_And I can’t. I just - can’t_.

He didn’t want to look at Tiburon either. He knew exactly what kind of look he’d get in return; the same one that had had coaches throw him off as many track teams as he’d joined.

_You play, but you can’t win. And what do we look like, letting a crybaby on the team? You’re out of here_.

God, he wished he could just run. Out of here. Away.

_But I can’t. I promised_.

He headed for his backpack instead. Homework wasn’t going to do itself, after all. And being buried in geometry was a good excuse for ignoring everyone while he packed the pain back down into a manageable package.

_Better just take notes from Aladdin and get them to Maria somehow. Maybe she can make them work_ -

He slid sideways from the shadow before he could think.

Tiburon took two long steps back, face suddenly neutral. Held a hand up before Morgan could uncoil; as if that would stop her if she meant to move. “You know, you did the right thing. Backing off, if you weren’t sure.”

_Almost set gym on fire. That was the right thing? World not making sense. Retreat. Hope nobody asks for thinking._ “I’ve got - notes to get through,” Alan managed, grabbing his backpack. “We don’t know - Aladdin could be awhile. Weapons are sorted. Thought I’d read up.”

He could feel Morgan’s gaze burning into him, before she stared at Tiburon as if she wanted to throttle answers out of _somebody_.

_What can I say? Better you find out now, while it’s still easy to fade away and find someone else. When it comes to the important stuff - I choke. Always_.

“ _Aladdin_ could be a while....” Tiburon frowned. “You know, sparring is supposed to be fun.”

He was _not_ going to stare at the man. Or roll his eyes. Or hide behind his pack and burst into sobs, no matter how much he wanted to hug his knees to his chest and just shake. He was stuck here. He had to blend into the gray areas enough get by.

_Smile. It’s not like you don’t have practice_.

And then what? Tiburon wasn’t a cop, put off with _yes sir, no sir, I need to call a guardian, sir_. And he sure as hell wasn’t Pablo, easily baffled with an innocent look and a rambling story about a neighbor’s missing cats and a mean guy with a wok. Though even Pablo hadn’t been put off by that one twice.

_Think, think_ -

“Go work on your notes,” Tiburon said quietly. Subtly moving so he was between Alan and Morgan.

_Thank you for small favors_ , Alan willed at the universe, heading to the end of bleachers nearest the outer door. If she touched him, he’d break. And he couldn’t. He _couldn’t_.

_I can’t cry. I can’t tell them the truth. I can’t be what they want me to be. What Amon wants me to be. I’m no king! I’m just-_

_Survive. I just have to survive. One day at a time_.

* * *

_Hollywood, we have a problem,_ Tiburon thought grimly.

At first he’d thought it was just the rather amusing lack-of-lethal the youngster was coming up with. Which probably wasn’t funny at all to Alan; fifteen-year-olds could be incredibly prickly about insults to young dignity, and there wasn’t anything much more embarrassing than utterly failing at something you’d bragged that you could do. And given the flinches he’d already seen from Alan faced with anything resembling a public spectacle, any dry remarks that harmless fire would be good on stage had seemed like a bad idea.

_Maybe I should have said it anyway_ , Tiburon winced. _It might have gotten him to stop before he worked himself into knots._

Because the level of shutdown he’d just seen wasn’t a kid wincing from a boast gone wrong. That was-

_Dartmoor. Survival training. That one poor kid flung into the scrum by his family, because military service was The Thing To Do for their heirs. The kid who had no nerve whatsoever, and knew it. Worse, he knew everyone else knew it_.

Which made no _sense_. Alan had more nerve than half the soldiers he’d trained. You couldn’t get in that close with a shortsword without it. And that didn’t even begin to go into _wielding fire_.

_So why is he acting like the weak link all the other teams will target?_ Tiburon fumed, picking up spears to store them in his own carry-rack. _Worse, the one who knows his own teammates will leave him bound and gagged, so he doesn’t slow them down-_

_Damn it all_. Tiburon had to stop a moment, so he didn’t jam sharp edges into leather. _He is, isn’t he? Morgan has her family’s martial arts; Aladdin has magic. Alan’s a runner who’s had less than a week of bladework. Anything more than that is memories he doesn’t trust, and Amon._

_Right. Like I’d want to rely on something not human in_ my _head._

_Top that off with Callimachus and Phaenomena showing him - twice - that the only thing between them and a lot of people getting hurt is_ him. _We sure as hell didn’t stop them._

_And he’s terrified of failing. More than the fire, more than me or even Simon coming after him with sharp objects. He was almost crying. And he knew it, and knew showing it would make things worse. That’s_ anger, _damn it, not just teenage frustration. Anger, and shame, and life-threatening fear. The kind of fear that means if something goes wrong, someone he cares about gets_ hurt.

Which made Tiburon want to grab the kid and interrogate him for every last detail on the _thing about the landfill_. Because damn it, given Alan had brought it up at all, he shouldn’t have let the youngster brush it off with a shrug and a verbal deflection. If you were in it, there was no such thing as a small explosion.

_Later. When he’s not so much of a fragile mess. Frag me, that was too close... how do I lower the pressure on him? What can I do that will get him to calm down and just be a kid for a little while?_

_Heh. First, make sure I know what he’s doing,_ Tiburon reminded himself. _Kid’s too responsible to goof off if there’s no one else to take up the slack._

_So. What would I do, if I were stuck on foreign territory with a few hundred unwanted dependents counting on me to keep them safe from armed enemies with unknown capabilities, but a hell of a lot more firepower and at least a few decades more experience?_

Tiburon almost smirked. _I know what I’d_ want _to do. Find a friendly tavern and get stark, staring drunk_.

Failing that, he’d want to lay his hands on every bit of armed backup he could beg, borrow, or kidnap-

_Oh hell_.

Tiburon could have kicked himself. Alan hadn’t appeared in his classes of his own free will. He’d been tossed in. By Simon. Who was the principal of the school Alan’s kidnapping father had tossed him into. Who probably looked like he was on perfectly good terms with Alan’s father, because that was what Simon did.

_Which means if Alan can’t read people well, he can’t be sure we’re not all on his father’s side_ , Tiburon reflected. _And if he can, and I think he can, he’s even more confused. Why should he be able to trust anyone who seems to get along just fine with the man who - as he put it - hasn’t made time for the motherless bastard?_

The swordsman breathed deep as Morgan crept up on him. “I shouldn’t have made that joke about Stockholm,” he murmured, low enough not to reach the bleachers. “I got him thinking.” Tiburon glanced at the worried redhead, picturing that towering whirl of flame. “He fights so much better when he doesn’t think.”

“Why?” The tone might be blunt, but dark-lashed eyes shimmered, hurt to the bone.

“Good question,” Tiburon muttered. Thinking of that flinch, when Alan obviously hadn’t been tracking well enough to be sure _who_ had just cast a shadow on him....

_And he hasn’t left_. Which prickled a slow, nasty chill down Tiburon’s spine. _The youngster’s upset enough to break down crying with just one more thing piled on him, he has a fair amount of survival instincts, and he’s not running for cover? Even for just a quiet corner out of sight? It doesn’t make sense_ -

Well. There was one way it made sense. Horrible, nauseating sense.

_If you’re a teenager stressed to the point of crying, you run and hide... unless being out of sight is even more dangerous._

_I think there’s a small town up north I want to destroy._

_Oh hell. I don’t even know which one_.

Right. Meaning he had to grab Simon and Ja’far and _shake_ the teen’s past out of them. Because if Alan wasn’t even mentioning his hometown by name, there was no way Tiburon could interrogate- er, _ask_ him what exactly had happened.

_Well, I know not being able to live up to what someone expects is definitely a problem_ , Tiburon concluded. _And not being able to do what he asks of_ himself _is worse. I don’t think he was boasting. He really thought he could use fire offensively_.

Given that fire-whirl Alan had called up when he was well and truly upset, he probably _could_. Just not without frying innocent bystanders.

_He just started swords last week. Give him some time to figure things out_.

Problem was, with Phaenomena out there Alan might not _have_ that time-

His gaze caught a flutter of something pale through the glass of the gym’s interior doors. _Damn. No way do I need someone walking in without giving the kid a moment_. “Uh-oh.” Tiburon scratched the back of his head. “I think I might be in trouble.”

The casual sigh caught Alan’s ear, as he’d intended; Tiburon caught a glimpse of Alan hastily swiping a hand across his face before folding his notes binder closed, just before a familiar vice-principal stalked through the door.

“What might ever give you that idea?” There was the slightest of smiles on Ja’far’s face. “Just because the two of you have been tossing around _fire magic_ near flammable bleachers in a gym we haven’t finished rebuilding yet....”

_Definitely in trouble_ , Tiburon concluded. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Alan trying to stay small and quiet and out of the line of fire. He couldn’t blame him a bit.

_Move fast_. Tiburon lifted a hand to near waist level, fluttering through some of the hand-signs he and the not-a-ninja had worked out. _‘Combat stress. Caution.’_

From that serpent-quick flick of gray eyes, Ja’far knew exactly who he was talking about. “But rebuilding the gym from scratch again would at least be a problem we could throw money at,” the magician grumbled. “As opposed to... I blame Simon for this. I do. The rukh gets _ideas_ from him, I swear.”

“Do I hear my name being taken in vain?” Simon strode in with almost all of his usual nonchalance; Aladdin a step behind him, and then a few steps as the curious magi paused to look at the array of metal and hinges that was a pushbar on the gym doors. “What, nothing’s on fire? And here I was hoping for interesting footage.”

“What?” Alan croaked.

Morgan had slipped across the room like a red-maned ghost. Now her hand rested on Alan’s arm, a dainty touch that wasn’t quite a handcuff. “Controlled pyrotechnics are an important effect, aren’t they?” Her glance slanted at Alan. “A backstage effect.”

_Not my imagination_ , Tiburon realized, watching a little of the tension drain out of Alan’s stance. _Failure may be the worst trigger, but he definitely doesn’t want to be seen_.

“Absolutely,” Simon said solemnly. “Alan, you and Aladdin - and anyone else who turns up as a Fire mage, I’m sure we’ll have a few - should look into getting pyrotechnician’s licenses. You’re too young to have them yet, but if there’s one thing I know about dealing with the ATF, it’s that you can never start government paperwork too soon.”

“Does everything run on paperwork?” Aladdin grumbled, finished poking at the door lever. “It sounds worse than the Kou Empire!”

_And you aren’t nearly as innocent as you look_ , Tiburon realized, catching that flicker of worry in blue eyes. _You’re_ stalling. _Letting Alan have another moment to breathe before he has to try and put on “I can handle it” again_.

“And now you know why empires are evil. They invented _bureaucracy_.” Simon waved a hand through air that still shimmered a little with heat, casual in a way that made Tiburon relax despite himself. “No repair bill, this time, but you’re going to knock our air conditioning through the roof.”

“We are not building a Danger Room,” Ja’far said, with the air of one who’d had to say this many, many times before. “You have a dungeon. We’ll use that... what?”

Tiburon shook his head, kicking himself for letting his observation skills slip. “When did you go out enough in the sun to get freckles....” _Wait. What the-?_ “Are you okay? Your hair-!” Because after all, _Chernobyl_. Who knew how ancient magoi might react with latent radiation exposure?

Ja’far started, hand rising to those flecks of white roots before he sighed, and pinned Simon with a sharp look. “I blame you.”

“Me?” For once, Simon looked surprised, if still amused. “It’s your magic.”

“I’m not blaming you for the white hair,” Ja’far said, very precise; gray eyes just slightly narrowed and dangerous. “I am blaming you for the _fangirls_. Who are going to be gossiping all over school that the stress of managing you turned me prematurely gray, I was vain enough to hide it long enough to go _white_ , and now that you’ve got a dungeon with _actual dragons_ in it, I’ve just given up. They’ll be at it for months. Years, even- Simon?” He raised a still mostly-dark brow, as his friend and principal couldn’t hold back the snickers anymore. “Oh, go ahead and laugh. Just realize any film you _accidentally_ take of me is going to have to be continuity checked and edited in post-production later, for as long as it takes to grow out.”  

“My god, the man listened when I talked about post.” Simon clapped his hands together gleefully. “Pictures? Please? After all, this would be an interesting touch to add to a lot of genre films, and one of the seniors had an idea for a short werewolf-hunter sketch that might find makeup in that vein very apropos.”

“Either I’m dreaming, or I shouldn’t have let Simon anywhere near my water bottle,” Tiburon muttered. “Your hair’s turning white and you’re worried about how the kids will take it?” _Simon, you great flamboyant goof. You’re living proof that having people’s eyes on you can be a good thing. If I can get Alan to calm down and watch how you do it... how can I get you and Alan hanging out in the same place?_

_Then again, you need to spar too...._

Surprise flickered in gray eyes, chased off by rueful amusement. “I was born with white hair, a lifetime ago,” Ja’far admitted. “Having that... and the freckles... come back....” He shifted his shoulders, not quite a shrug. “It may be annoying, but given the choice between that and not getting some of my old advantages back, I’ll take the annoyance.”

“Um....” Alan was looking between the three of them, and the way Aladdin wasn’t quite meeting his eyes. “ _Why_ are you getting white hair back?”

_He almost sounds normal_. Tiburon added a few more incendiaries to his plan for Alan’s hometown. _No wonder Simon thought he’d make it as an actor. He’s got lots of practice_.

“Biology’s not my thing,” Alan went on, “but if this is another life - last time I checked, souls don’t have DNA.” He eyed Ja’far. “Or do they?”

“Interesting question.”

_Oh no_ , Tiburon thought, a chill of dread going down his spine. _Incoming science lecture, twelve o’clock high_ -

“I suppose the answer is, yes and no,” Ja’far reflected. “The rukh is energy. But when it wants to express itself in a physical form, it has to do so through the medium of the world around us. And if what it wants to express is something that doesn’t exist _now_....”

Alan stood his ground as Ja’far approached, even when the magician ruffled his hair.

_Brave kid,_ Tiburon thought. _Braver than I think he knows. Not sure I could - oh. Hell_.

Around Ja’far’s fingers, Alan’s roots glinted gold.

Then the glitter was gone again, as the youngster stepped sideways, casual as any soul about to say _screw propriety_ and run for the hills. “Would you not do that? I’m not getting up on one of your lab tables, and there’s no way you’re anybody’s maiden aunt.”

“He’s just taking a look.” Aladdin moved in a little, as if he wanted to support both of them.

“A look at _what?_ ”

And if nothing else had hinted to Tiburon that his student was teetering on the brink of overwhelmed, that would have told him as bluntly as a brick to the face. Teenagers lived, breathed, and _existed_ to worry about themselves first. An uneven tan was a tragedy; a pimple was a disaster.

Granted, Alan was one of the outliers that proved the rule. Tiburon would bet hard coin that the only situations that would have Alan worried about himself first would involve an oxygen mask or a tourniquet. Couldn’t take care of other people if you were unconscious. Or dead.

But if the youngster prided himself on anything, it was being both invisible and observant. That Alan _hadn’t noticed_ that distinct trace of gold....

_Oh bloody hell. How do we tell him?_

Morgan let go to rest her chin on one fist, eyes creased in worry as she looked up at the lad. “You were blond. On the dragon.”

_...Right,_ Tiburon thought ruefully as Alan stared at her. _MacLeas. Straight between the eyes_.

“I wasn’t sure what to say.” Morgan ducked her head, eyes glancing up like a shy red kitten. “I saw it through the flames. The fire just wrapped around you... and it turned blond. And fiery. Then you never stopped smelling like fire.”

“That’s insane,” Alan said faintly.

“No, you were always- I mean, it’s pretty common in a Full Equip,” Aladdin said hastily. “Vinea was a Water Djinn, so Kougyoku’s hair was this really pretty blue, like seawater. Morgiana said she smelled like rain on the sea. That always sounded so nice. Paimon made her king’s hair feather-white, Barbatos was silver, Focalor was feathery red-black....”

Alan raised an eyebrow at him. Aladdin blinked, almost innocent.

_I know you’re not lying, but I also know you’re avoiding something_ , Tiburon translated that look. _And I_ will _find out what it is. Sooner or later_.

From Aladdin’s even more innocent blink, the magi was definitely hoping for later.

“You’re right; the rukh doesn’t have DNA,” Ja’far said steadily. “But it knows the patterns it needs to affect the physical world. And it knows how to heal someone who’s looking after it.” He gave Alan an up-and-down look. “I said you’d singed your soul. I didn’t know how right I was.” The magician smiled, with the rueful look of someone sharing the same annoying prank by the universe. “I’ve pulled enough power out healing to have killed me a dozen times if I’d done it last month. You poured a whole dragon’s fire through you. We’re both lucky the rukh’s being this gentle. On you, it actually looks pretty good.” He waved a wry hand at white roots. “This? This is _not subtle_. How am I supposed to explain this to _teenagers?_ Especially Simon’s fangirls! There’s no way they’re not going to notice, they pay more attention to my hair than they do to their _grades_. And what they want to do with it - Solomon, you should see their Facebook postings. Or not, it’d scare you silly-”

“Technically that makes them _your_ fangirls,” Simon smirked.

“I don’t have fangirls,” Ja’far said, in a voice like iron. “I refuse to have fangirls. They’re all yours.”

Tiburon grinned, and made sure he caught Alan’s glance. _Watch. And listen. This is what sane people are like_.

Well. Simon and Ja’far both might object to being called sane. But as far as Tiburon was concerned, their brand of insanity was a lot more healthy approach to the world than the British stiff upper lip.

“You should see the pictures.” Morgan was still, trying to give the impression of someone _not_ about to pounce, really. “It was like a phoenix. Fire, and....” She paused, evidently hunting for a word that wouldn’t scare off her snuggly. “Pretty.”

Alan bit his lip. And stared at Aladdin.

The magi flung up open hands. “This isn’t strange! It’s just Djinn. If Ugo _was_ planning something else, I wish he’d let me in on it!”

Tiburon crossed his arms, skeptical. For someone with great magical power, it didn’t seem plausible that Aladdin could have been that clueless. But Alan seemed willing to hear him out... and Ja’far didn’t have that dangerous stillness he got when someone important was lying.

“There’s nothing _wrong_ with you. You’re a Metal Vessel User. When I look at the rukh....” Aladdin hesitated, looking a little sheepish. “By the time I started learning what it meant, besides just the life-birds everywhere, you already had Amon. I only knew you - I mean, you back then, Alibaba - for a few days when you _didn’t_ have Amon. And then the next time we met up you’d had him for months, and... his magoi was just _there_. Like it is now. I didn’t even realize you thought something was wrong until last night. And you said back off, and - I know the rukh can do things if I’m really upset. I didn’t want to make anything worse.”

Tiburon raised a brow, catching that slight flicker of relief on Ja’far’s face. _Oh good, he had help with that_.

Which meant he could relax a bit, and snicker. “What?” Tiburon shrugged, at everyone’s looks. “Just picturing our resident magician with a wizard’s white hair. It’s a classic.”

He’d expected Ja’far’s Look of Death. He had not expected the small, almost innocent smile that followed. The kind of smile that said something hadn’t just walked over your grave, it was taking malicious notes with a black crow-feather pen and drawing up spidery blueprints for _exactly_ how deep to dig.

“Oh, just _wait_ ,” Ja’far murmured.

_Eeep_.

“I have to learn how you do that,” Simon mused. And sighed, pouting in a way that would make kindergarteners jealous. “I feel so left out.”

“Really?” Aladdin brightened. “After Ja’far helps me make sure Alan’s okay - well, I’m not sure, but I bet we could do _something_.”

“How could we even tell if anything happened to your hair?” Ja’far said dryly, drifting back to his usual spot at Simon’s shoulder now that the crisis seemed well and truly averted. “You dye it purple anyway....”

The magician was just far back enough that Simon couldn’t catch Ja’far’s quick glance at the back of his head. Or see the startled, then resigned and almost snickering look on that freckled face.

Tiburon did his best to keep a deadpan expression. _And three, two_ -

Ja’far’s Death Glare swept them all. _No one tells him_ , the magician mouthed.

Given the various mishaps and life-threatening situations Simon had gotten them into just this week, Tiburon was okay with that. Though how Ja’far thought Simon wouldn’t notice....

_Purple? Seriously?_

Then again, Aladdin’s hair was _blue_. Which implied... eep. “Um,” Tiburon ventured, fingers straying near his own hair. “So what...?”

Ja’far smirked.

_Evil_ , Tiburon decided. _Definitely_. “You’re going to make me find out the hard way, aren’t you.”

“A teacher should understand his student,” Ja’far said, with that same small smile of Utter Evil.

_If I could bottle that, I’d have something to scare even Colonel Jones’ squads_ , Tiburon thought, almost shuddering. It was hard enough keeping his knife-happy students from trying to kidnap Ja’far to spar... though he suspected if he ever stayed out of it, they’d only try _once_. So far the terrifying thought that if something happened to Ja’far, someone might hold _them_ accountable for Simon’s sanity, had at least kept people from asking the vice-principal if he wanted jump training.

Honestly, Tiburon could see Ja’far leaping out the door for a drop as calmly as he dispatched his paperwork. Though possibly with a few more knives involved.

Sitting back down on the bleachers, Alan curled and uncurled one strap of his backpack around his finger. “So exactly how were you two planning to check I was okay?”

_Oh, that’s an interesting pose_. Tiburon watched out of the corner of his eye, deliberately not staring. Sitting down was obviously meant to imply _who, nervous, me?_ But the obvious fidgeting-

_Well, bite me_ , Tiburon almost smirked. _It’s_ meant _to be obvious. To cover the fact he can grab, swing, and use the momentum of thirty-odd pounds of books to both flatten whoever’s coming at him_ and _pivot out of their line of attack_.

Which was the most hopeful sign Tiburon had seen since Alan had tripped over his own mental feet. The youngster might be stressed and expecting someone out of the shadows to try and mangle him, but he was _not_ going down without a fight.

“That’s up to you,” Ja’far said seriously. “Simon knows enough magoi manipulation to check you quickly for anything drastically wrong. Aladdin and I could take a deeper look, to sort out any subtle knots in the energy flow.” He folded his hands together. “Simon could check you over in less than a minute. I’d need at least five for a good look.”

“...Okay,” Alan sighed. “If you find something wrong, what are you going to do?”

“We’ll talk about that if we find something.” Ja’far sat down on the bleachers beside Alan, eyes half-closed as Aladdin sat on the floor by them both.

_And Morgan’s near enough to pound people, but far enough not to push. Good_.

Tiburon traded a glance with Simon. Who shrugged, and meandered over to help him properly store weapons to get hauled back to the salle. “Do you think you’d prefer it if we built you a weapons safe here, so we don’t need to....” Simon stared at corkscrewed steel. “How did someone do _that?_ ”

“The story I got included a crab, an anemone, and jumping clear from a stinging venomous thing,” Tiburon said wryly. “How much of the budget can you divert into new weapons? We’re going to need good ones, not just spear-carrier models.”

Simon frowned. “If you’ve got an idea what you want, let’s crunch a few numbers....”

That chewed up a few useful minutes. Though Tiburon was well aware that both of them kept glancing toward that quiet huddle on the bleachers.

An indrawn breath, and Aladdin lifted a hand. Ja’far held up his, silent.

Aladdin sighed, but put his hand back down on his knee. Even if his fingers were drumming in frustration.

“Ouch.” Ja’far blinked, and shrugged his shoulders, weaving his fingers together in thought. “Well, the good news is there’s nothing really wrong. There are a few eddies we can clear, that will help-”

“Bad news,” Alan said firmly.

_Why am I not surprised?_ Tiburon thought wryly.

“The bad news is, there’s nothing really wrong,” Ja’far replied. “Your rukh is intact. The extra magoi seems to be blending in evenly. But you spent the first fifteen years of your life _without_ an intact soul. It’s as if....” He frowned, thinking it over. “It’s _very_ like just getting a cast off, after a bad break. The bone is intact but all the muscles around it are weak. And you’ve developed habits to not rely on it. It’s going to hurt for a while whenever you use magoi. There’s nothing we can do about that.”

“There isn’t?” Aladdin’s face fell. “Not at all?”

“The best thing you can do is practice using small amounts of power,” Ja’far stated. “Like building up wasted muscles. You need time. And patience.” He gave the magi a firm look. “Aladdin, if you want to help, then take some time to talk to Amon and get him to _be patient_. Outside of real emergencies, like the dragon, letting loose a Djinn’s full power is going to cause a lot more problems than it solves.”

“I just wish there was something I could do to help _now_.” Aladdin rolled his wand between his hands. “I slept for thousands of years. I’m tired of _waiting_.”

“You did help.” Alan planted his hands on his knees. “You helped Ja’far figure out what was wrong, and we know it’s not going to kill me. If you want to do more, check Morgan.”

The redhead started. “But nothing’s wrong with me.”

Tiburon coughed behind his hand. “Your uncle mentioned a broken door or two?”

Spots of color bloomed on her cheeks. “Did he mention the vase?”

Tiburon let an eyebrow flick up, as Simon stifled a snicker. “I will definitely ask him, when he gets back.” _If he gets back... they should be okay. They should_.

Though he doubted he was the only one just hanging around until Malachy and his boys made it back for sure.

Aladdin glanced toward where the tower would be, eyes focused on something beyond the physical. “They’re okay.” He bounced to his feet, visibly brightening. “Oh, I should have thought of this before! If we’re walking home with Morgan’s cousins, we can test how well it works!”

Alan blinked, and tilted his head. “Test how well what works?”

Aladdin grinned, and twirled his wand. And vanished.

“Oh yes,” Simon breathed. “Predator algorithms, eat your heart out.”

_Invisibility? No, wait. He’s over there_ \- Tiburon stared across the gym, and frowned. _Or is he?_

Morgan started, and took a deep breath. Jumped down from the bleachers, sniffing-

Pounced, grabbing thin air.

Across the gym, the image of Aladdin laughed, one arm snagged by an invisible force. “You got me!”

Tiburon stared. The voice wasn’t coming from the image. “What the-?”

Alan stepped over to where Morgan was holding thin air, peering at her grip. “It looks like a heat haze.”

“Yamraiha used Water to bend light and be invisible,” Aladdin nodded. “I’m better with Heat magic, so I came up with a mirage. Bet Callimachus hasn’t seen something like that before!” A shimmer, and the image vanished, as Aladdin reappeared in Morgan’s grip. “If I can set that off in a hurry, it’ll be a lot harder for them to go after us. Maybe you guys can help me practice it? If it really works - it _is_ Heat magic. Maybe I can teach Amon the formula.”

“Teach _Amon_ the formula?” Alan said pointedly.

“Well, yeah,” Aladdin nodded, glancing at Ja’far and Simon. “That’s how Metal Vessels and Household Vessels work, right? The Djinn or the spirit - they actually do the formulas. A Vessel user has to learn how to feel it... eep?”

_Eep_ was definitely the word, Tiburon decided. Ja’far looked half a breath from stabbing something. “You didn’t mention this to him before?” the vice-principal said, words precise as cut ice.

“Well, they were asking about magic, and spells, and how to help magicians since we might have a few in our class and... I forgot?”

Ja’far slapped a hand against his forehead.

* * *

“Okay, they’re gone,” Simon observed, listening to the faint rumble of Malachy’s minivan as it pulled out of the lot. Shionne might have wanted her niece walked home in the name of friendship and teen romance, but Malachy had taken one look at the wrung-out trio in the gym and offered a ride. Wise man.

Simon folded his arms, and grinned at a frustrated swordsman. “Well, Dr. Tiburon, what’s your prognosis?”

“The patient will live, but I’d like to shake his father a few times,” Tiburon said, green eyes glittering with eager dreams of mayhem. “And don’t get me started on what I’d like to do to his hometown. It involves high explosives.”

Ouch. “That sounds a bit serious for stage fright,” Simon reflected.

“Stage fright? That’s just scratching the surface of the problem.” Tiburon scratched at the back of his head, then pulled a few strands forward as if trying to subtly check for changes. “One odd thing I’ve noticed about Americans. You claim you don’t have a class system like Britain... and you don’t. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t something like it.”

“We claim,” Simon pointed out. “You did swear an oath to join this madhouse like the rest of us.”

“So I did.” Tiburon gave him a friendly shark’s flash of a smile. “But I still see things that almost fit the way I grew up. And there are reasons they call it New England, and not New California. Alan... well, down here you’d call it growing up on the wrong side of the tracks. Almost sounds like an accident; could happen to anyone. But my old family would call him a by-blow, and that means _scoundrel, wastrel, mongrel; bad blood and he’ll never be anything else_.”

Simon had to rub at a headache. “Sounds like Mrs. Silversmith would fit right in. But Richard-”

“Oh, but men are just men,” Tiburon said dryly, “and a man with wealth and means - well, if a woman truly valued herself, she’d settle for a man of her own class and make him marry her, rather than play the mistress for one of nobler breeding. Expect a man to control himself and honor his own vows?” The swordsman looked as if he’d like to spit. “As you said. I _left_ England, and I’m not the least sorry for it. For many reasons.”

Simon traded a glance with Ja’far, and stayed quiet. Better to let their friend have a moment to calm down.

“That young man,” Tiburon said at last, “grew up where his so-called _betters_ had to make it clear they really _were_. Whether they were or not. Given he’s smart and has a good sense of self-preservation, it probably didn’t take him long to figure out that standing out was only going to earn him pain. Oh, probably not beatings, not often; though given how he flinches when he’s too wound up to think, I can’t even be sure of that. But believe me, having everyone out to _show you your place_ can leave scars without ever drawing blood. Every time we ask him to show off, to make it _obvious_ that he’s not just good, he’s _spectacular_ \- we might as well ask him to put his hand right in a bear trap. That would hurt less.”

“Damn,” Simon breathed. He’d been trying not to push, really-

Tiburon glanced at them. “The pyro license is a good idea.”

Ja’far was nodding, thoughtful. “Let him get used to creating the show. Not being it.”

“And never underestimate a young man’s desire to impress a lady,” Tiburon said wryly. “Morgan thinks the fireworks are _cool_.” He let a breath sigh out, taking anger with it. “You know, the fact that Alan’s even looking her way is what keeps me from hunting down his father right now. He’s scarred, not broken. He knows who she is and what she is - martial arts princess, solid family in the community, _respected_ \- and he still believes he might have something to offer her. Malachy might need to be a little gentle so this doesn’t end up like Cyrano de Bergerac, but... give him time.” Green eyes narrowed. “Time, and maybe a little _visit_ around the Christmas holidays. So he can give the people up there a proper goodbye, tell them to go to hell, and shake the dust from his feet.”

_Ack_. “That might be tricky,” Simon admitted. “There may be someone up there who wants to kill him.”

“Possibly several someones,” Ja’far agreed. “At the very least there was someone Anne Ryans was willing to die to stop. He may have had associates. People of that ilk always do.”

“Willing to-” Tiburon’s face went still and waiting, like Ja’far’s about to pounce something. Only the swordsman’s eyes were far more eager for violence. “You’re serious.”

“You might be able to get more information than we have,” Simon acknowledged. “According to Richard Silversmith, the FBI is tangled up in the case. They suspect it was one of the human traffickers she was investigating.”

Tiburon let a breath hiss between his teeth. “And no one’s told Alan.”

“I don’t know that,” Simon objected; he liked Richard, evasions and all. “His father said he would.”

“Well he hasn’t yet,” Tiburon growled. “Alan almost melted down when he couldn’t get fire to work the way he wanted. When he finally lost his temper, it behaved _beautifully_. If he knew his mother died by violence, we’d have smoking holes in the ground.”

“Alibaba never set things on fire without cause.” Ja’far folded his hands together. “But in a way, you’re right. If he _did_ know, he’d weep for her.” Gray eyes creased; a cat’s predatory smile. “And then he’d find out who they were, and how to stop them.”

That sounded like a voice of experience. And remembered violence. Simon sternly told himself _not_ to shudder. As he’d told Ja’far, the man was a Life mage now, not an assassin. Given the choice between death and a more creative means of handling an idiot, Ja’far chose life. Though some of Ja’far’s nonviolent means of handling problems left obnoxious idiots _wishing_ they were dead....

_Oh yes. Walking into Chernobyl? Best. Decision. Ever_.

And this was the modern world, with modern laws and law enforcement. Surely there was something they could do short of letting a grief-stricken teenager get lost in vengeance. “I think we’d better put our heads together, then. Just in case we need to be one step ahead of him. This is what we know so far....”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I admit there’s one bit of Magi canon that frustrates my bunnies. We never get to see anything about Alibaba first finding out he has a Djinn, or how he first played with fire, or working on Full Equip. But knowing Alibaba? There’s no way any of that went smoothly....


	12. Firebirds and family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alan gets compared to a cheesy 80s show. Morgan smiles. And the coach thinks he has a plan.
> 
> ...Yep, things go downhill from there.

Aladdin glanced around the noisy cafeteria as they sat down, then leaned in near Alan so only Morgan would overhear what he said. “Okay. Why were those guys making jokes about camels?”

“Because some guys’ sense of humor is really low.” Alan’s voice was just as quiet as he fingered the netted red-glass talisman Ja’far had given him in homeroom; one of the set he’d made for all three of them, to warn them if Callimachus was near. “It’s Wednesday. Middle of the week. Some people like to call that hump day. Only _hump_ is a word some people use for-”

Aladdin felt his eyebrows jump at the phrase Alan used next; it wasn’t as circuitous as the Kou Empire’s _play of clouds and rain_ , but it wasn’t nearly as coarse as some of the terms used for coupling in Balbadd’s back alleys.

_I think I remember Sharrkan using that name for it, when he was only a little drunk_ , Aladdin thought. _So does Alan think this place is like Sindria, or is he just trying to be polite? Or is that just one of the things he remembers?_

At least it was better than the various kinds of awkward and you-didn’t-see-that-and-I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-it Alan had pulled last night. It was as if Alan thought guys _weren’t supposed to cry_.

Which was the kind of idiotic arrogance-and-knives-at-the-world attitude he’d seen in the Kou Empire; all that stiff bowing and not letting your face even _twitch_ until you just couldn’t take it anymore, and went off like one of Kouen’s volcanoes in all directions. Like Hakuryuu in Zagan’s dungeon. Boom. He’d been hoping he would _never_ see that again. Thinking of all Alibaba’s joy and wonder chained down and made to _behave_ \- it made him feel sick.

_But I’d better ask Ja’far before I say anything like_ _that,_ Aladdin frowned. _Alan wouldn’t be that mad at himself without a really good reason... I think_.

Argh. When he got to see Ugo again, they were going to have to talk about getting dumped into whole new worlds. Or at least talk about the fact they _hadn’t_ talked about it. Sure, save the whole flow of the rukh, but he’d never expected this....

“What’s wrong?” Across the table from them, Morgan looked worried.

Aladdin looked down, stabbing the odd cheesy noodles with a fork. “Waking up in a new world... isn’t as much fun as it sounds like.”

“No, it’s not,” Alan sighed.

His fork stabbed and skidded. Aladdin tried not to groan, even as his heart seemed to want to vibrate like a scared rabbit.

“I mean, it’s not the same thing, not really,” Alan said sheepishly, tossing him a napkin. “But when I woke up down here a couple weeks ago - yeah. Feels like the whole world dropped out from under you.” He shrugged. “People keep telling me I’ll get used to it, but it feels like I’m trying to breathe water half the time. So... I don’t know what it’s like to be in a whole _different_ world, but I know it’s not fun.”

_Oh_. Aladdin looked at the bent white stuff rukh called _plastic_ , feeling as if someone had lifted a whole sea monster off his shoulders.

_There’s no one like me in the whole world_.

But it’d been that way back in Qishan, and Balbadd, and Sindria, and none of that had mattered. Because Alibaba _knew_ they weren’t alike, that no two people in the world were alike, and he didn’t care. They’d both lost people, and found friends, and cried together when everything went wrong. And, sometimes, hit each other over the head when someone was being _really stupid_.

_“Together, we’ll figure something out!”_

Maybe there was no one like him in this world. But that didn’t mean he was alone.

“So....” Morgan was demolishing her meal with casual efficiency, bits of tuna disappearing as fast as the cheese. “It’s not that you don’t like it here. It’s that you don’t know enough to know if you like it.”

And now Alan looked like Morgan had heaved the sea monster off his shoulders. “Right. I just - well, nobody asked me before I woke up here, either.” He waved his fork at Aladdin. “Though I have to say, so far you win for the suckiest wake-up, hands down.”

Aladdin blinked, eyes wide. “Um... I don’t know if that’s something you _win_....”

“Sure it is! Gives you bragging rights.” And there was a smile, even if it was still a little shaky. “I walked uphill! Through the snow! Both ways! _Classic_. Never underestimate the value of a good story.”

Morgan nodded. “Adventures are only _adventures_ after you’re back home, Uncle Malachy says. Or at least curled up warm and dry by a fire. While you’re in them, they’re one big mess you just have to get through.”

“...Yeah,” Aladdin smiled back at her. “Yeah, you’re right.” _Time. We just need some time. Getting to know Alibaba and Morgiana didn’t happen in just a few days. We can do this_. I _can do this_.

_Well. If I can get through lunch_. “So, how do you deal with the bendy?” Aladdin held up his fork. It hadn’t really fared well against the plate.

“You don’t,” Alan growled. Wry and low, like a Sindrian fisherman growling about the storms that just _had_ to roll in every time he was bringing in the evening catch; it happened, wasn’t anything you could do about it. “Which is why it’s good to snag two.” He set another set of wrapped plasticware by Aladdin’s tray. “Besides. If you end up not using them, you can always stash a set in your backpack for- um. Stuff.”

_“Stuff?”_ Aladdin and Morgan chorused.

“NevermindaskmelaterifMalachysaysyes,” Alan mumbled. “Stuff. Doors and... stuff.” He glanced over his shoulder; just a slide of eyes toward the pair approaching their seats, people a table away probably wouldn’t even notice. “Huh. _That’s_ interesting.”

“Um... hi?” Michaela hovered by one of the empty chairs at their table, nervous. “Do you mind if we-?”

Morgan waved at a chair by her. Aladdin grinned at Prescott, not surprised that the other teen chose to sit by him instead of Alan. Sometimes he didn’t think Alan realized how intimidating he could be. Especially to a pair of _magicians_.

_Well, they’re not magicians yet_ , Aladdin concluded, watching Michaela’s glance only partly follow the silvery swarms of rukh about them. _But they could be. If they want to try_. “They’re really pretty, aren’t they?”

_“Hurk.”_

Aladdin thumped Prescott on the back so he didn’t swallow his fork. “It’s okay. I see them all the time.” He smiled at Michaela. “They look like butterflies, right? Or tiny birds, swooping in clouds; or waves and threads of moonlight. That’s the rukh. The flow of the universe. It’s all around us, but most people can’t see it. Someone like Uncle Simon can _feel_ it, though. That’s how he manages to pull off some of the crazy stunts he does. He knows how to fit the pattern so the universe works with him.”

“We’re not... seeing things?” Michaela dared.

Alan glanced between the two worried students, and squared his shoulders. “More like, you’re seeing things that really are there.” He held out a hand, palm flat, letting one swarm part and flow around it like wind. “I can only see them sometimes. Mostly when there’s a lot.”

“I can’t see them at all, unless everything’s blowing up,” Morgan said frankly. “But I know they’re there.”

“Blowing up,” Prescott managed. Coughed a little. “You mean, like the dragon?”

Mid-bite, Alan paused. “Um. That. That... was scary. I don’t think-”

“I _know!_ ” Michaela shivered, and attacked her lunch. “You looked awful after - after everything was over.” She gave Morgan a relieved look. “I’m just glad you could catch him. And that Mr. Ja’far was able to... um.” Behind glass, blue eyes flicked down to her plate again. “That he could help. Whatever he did. Is he... okay? I mean, he must have been hiding that all this time, and we’re not - it’d be really awful if he was worried we were going to _say_ anything....”

“Special effects,” Alan declared. “That’s everyone’s story and we’re sticking to it.”

Aladdin nodded. “Did you want to ask him to teach you?”

...The sound he got was something like _gurgle_. Michaela sank lower in her chair.

Prescott snickered. Tried to stifle it behind his fist. “Um. Sorry, really, but the parrot....”

Morgan frowned at him.

“...Was really none of my business, right,” Prescott babbled. “I guess - I just - you said the flow of the universe? Because... well, you know Jedi, and we _really_ don’t want to end up Sith-”

Confused, Aladdin glanced at Alan.

“Oh boy is that going to be a long story,” Alan snickered under his breath. “Okay, I only know a little bit about magic. You want to talk to Aladdin and Mr. Zvezdilin-” Alan caught their blank looks, and almost sighed, “Mr. _Ja’far_ for specifics. Heck, Morgan probably knows more than I do. But I think it’s less like being a Jedi, and more like being a _really strange_ martial artist.”

“You can be disciplined and ethical, and only use your skills to defend and play,” Morgan nodded. “Or you can be a bully and destroy yourself. And others.”

Aladdin listened to the rukh whisper about Jedi and Sith - light and darkness and _destruction_ \- and gulped. Yeah. Yeah, he could see why they were worried. If he hadn’t spent so long reconciling the black rukh with the rest of the flow, it could have happened. “If you use dark emotions when you cast spells, you’ll hurt people,” he said, straight out. They needed to know. “But you’ll hurt yourself worse, inside. Don’t do that.”

“Fear leads to anger,” Prescott said, voice rough as if he were quoting a gray-haired elder. “Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to _suffering_.”

“Oh yeah,” Alan breathed. For a moment his gaze was distant; Aladdin caught echoes in the rukh of gray hands and devouring blackness. “You have no idea how much.”

But he shook it off, shaking his head. “I think they’re more worried about, do they _have_ to be magicians, just because they can see the rukh?” Alan glanced at the pair. “Right?”

From the way both of them looked shifty-eyed and fidgety, and obviously trying _not_ to look fidgety, they really did want to. Aladdin did his best to keep a straight face. “I don’t really know,” he said honestly. “I couldn’t _not_ be a magician. The rukh listens to me all the time. I had to learn what I was doing before something really went sideways.” He felt his wand in his sleeve, watching the rukh flutter around them. “I think... if you really didn’t want to, and you stayed out of the dungeon, you’d only see the rukh. I knew a few people who didn’t have any more magic than that. But if you _do_ want to,” he looked at his friends. “Do you think Ja’far could start a class? I’m not sure I could teach, but I could help.”

Michaela turned a kind of flustered pink. Prescott blinked, eyes a little glassy.

“Maybe a study group?” Alan suggested. “Though where we can fit it in, between homework and self-defense and-” He stopped. Squinted into the distance, as if he could stare through walls at the dungeon.

Morgan followed his gaze, and nodded. “There’s more _time_ in the dungeon. And no one to report the fireballs.”

“Fireballs?” Prescott said faintly.

Aladdin grinned, and held out a hand, palm up, whispering to the rukh. _“Halharl Infigare.”_

Yellow and red, a cherry-sized ball of flames floated above his hand.

A hush seemed to ripple across the room; quieting gossip here, drowning it completely closer to the windows. The table Alan had called _full of jocks_ was utterly silent.

“Oh,” Prescott managed. “So... you can do tiny ones, too.”

“Definitely need to do this in the dungeon,” Alan sighed.

“Hey!” Michaela planted her hands on the table, raising her voice so everyone could hear. “Pyrotechnics are supposed to stay in Chem Lab!”

“Sorry!” Aladdin said, just as loud, letting fire vanish. _Ack, right, no magic in public... Simon said brazen it out, that doesn’t mean be careless!_

“No, no, my fault,” Prescott was grinning, if still a little pale. “Got some new flash powder to play with; we need to see how it works with the card tricks. Later.”

Oh good. They _were_ quick. Aladdin smiled at both of them, relieved. “Thanks,” he said under his breath. “I forget we shouldn’t do that in plain sight.” He dove back into what was left of his lunch. “Card tricks? Is that like Sharrkan teaching me to deal off the bottom of the deck?”

For a moment, Alan froze; rukh around him swirling with what looked like mingled disapproval and utter delight.

Eyebrow raised, Morgan poked his shoulder.

Alan started. “Er - um - I mean-”

“Show you at home?” Aladdin offered. And grinned at Prescott, who looked like someone had hit him over the head with a flaming fruit skewer. “Not the same kind of tricks?”

“Well, I... _might_ have heard something about those, but... no,” Prescott admitted. “I know the card tricks you show off at parties. I always thought that was as close to magic as I’d ever get....” He trailed off, staring at the mix of laughing and sorrowful rukh around Alan, and glanced at Aladdin. “Wait a minute. If magicians see the rukh-”

“Alan’s not a magician,” Aladdin shrugged. “But he can use magoi.”

“Magoi?” Michaela asked. “Mr. Ja’far said something about that Monday; about people being drained, and that that was dangerous. Was that why everyone was so tired?”

Aladdin nodded. “Sometimes you call it ki? Life energy. Alan _can_ use magoi, just not like a magician, with spells. It’s - um. A long story?”

“Short version, Callimachus hit me with some of those Fomoire chains the first time he showed up,” Alan said quietly. “It kind of backfired.” A tiny grin, and some of the more shadowed rukh rippled to silver-bright. “Literally.”

“Only what happened injured his magoi, so Mr. Ja’far and Aladdin have to keep an eye on him while he heals,” Morgan said firmly. And gave Alan the focused look a kitten would a butterfly. “You _will_ get better.”

Michaela swallowed. “I guess... what happened with the dragon didn’t help, did it?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Alan said, almost casually. “Definitely scared the pants off of me-”

Morgan giggled.

Alan looked at her. Looked at Aladdin.

_Not going to snicker_ , Aladdin told himself, trying not to choke on his food. _Well... not_ too _much_.

“I hear some of the costumers in Home Ec think it’s a challenge?” Prescott offered. “Like Principal Cavins dragging in Mr. Ja’far... er.”

“Dreamy challenge.” Michaela ran her finger along the rim of her cup. “I wish I could sew a straight line.”

Alan pushed his tray aside, and started beating his head on the table.

“Don’t do that. You looked very dignified.” Aladdin patted his arm. “And you’d know that, if you’d just look at the pictures.”

“Wait,” Prescott’s words tumbled over themselves as he fumbled with his plasticware. “You mean, you haven’t seen - you don’t know-”

“I was _busy_.” Alan raised his head, cheeks pink. “Dragon. Magical construct to smash-”

Prescott’s glasses gleamed. “We need a codename!”

Aladdin shared a confused glance with Alan. “For magicians?”

“SAS,” Alan offered. “Sufficiently Advanced Science.”

“No, for you!” Prescott leaned forward, intent. “So we can talk about what you did.”

From the twitch of his hands before Alan settled a look of polite neutrality on his face, talking about Djinn Equip was the _last_ thing he wanted to do. “That’s really not-”

“Torch!” Michaela suggested.

Morgan frowned.

“No,” Alan said flatly. “Can’t stand him in the comics, really can’t stand him in the movies. Look, we don’t really need-”

“Dungeon Master,” Prescott countered.

“Oh _god_ , no,” Alan protested.

“No way,” Aladdin had to agree. Because teasing was one thing, but.... “That one might actually make Baal a little mad. That’s _his_ dungeon.”

Michaela clapped her hands together. “Bennu!”

Morgan’s brows perked up, and she smiled.

“Bennu?” Alan kept it to a low hiss, as he scanned the sudden grins around the table. “Are you _seriously_ calling me the guy from that cheesy 80’s show? The one Principal Cavins put up last week, and said was the worst example ever, _for all time_ , of how _not_ to mess with mythology?”

“He’s blond,” Prescott started.

“That’s not my idea!”

“He’s mysterious,” Michaela chimed in. “He always has the right powers when it comes to the dramatic moment-”

“I think that’s called _lazy writers_.”

“And he’s powered by an amulet and the sun,” Prescott added. “Yours kind of shines. In a corner of your eye kind of way....”

Aladdin blinked, suddenly sure of what that rainbow flux in the rukh around Prescott meant. “Oh! You’re a Light mage!” He grinned at Alan. “Fire’s affinity is Wind, but it’s tied to Light too. He probably can see it easier than a lot of people.”

“The show says Bennu means _phoenix_ ,” Alan protested. “And Phoenix is a girl!”

Michaela nudged up her glasses with an air of pure mischief. “If Marvel can make Johnny Storm a black guy, Phoenix can be a guy.”

“But,” Alan tried.

Morgan blinked at him, wide-eyed and innocent as if she had a cream mustache.

“Doomed,” Alan muttered under his breath. “Look, we need to worry about _alchemists_ , not me.” He grabbed a bit of paper out of his backpack, quickly sketched an eight-pointed star with round discs at each point. “This is what Callimachus set up.” He added a few boxes labeled as school buildings. “See how he put his foci outside the grounds? We’re going to have to figure out how to look for things like that.”

“But even if we can see them - what do we _do?_ ” Michaela fidgeted in her chair, eyes wide and worried. “I mean... we can’t do what Bennu did.”

Alan muttered something under his breath that would have had Ja’far frown at him.

Aladdin kicked him under the table. “Bennu’s a nice name,” he murmured. “Morgan likes it.”

Alan glanced down, ears pink.

“You can pick up a hammer,” Morgan informed her classmate. “Most Magic Tools don’t work very well if they’re broken.”

“Find something heavy, use to break suspicious magicky things.” Prescott scribbled a note. “Okay, that makes sense. But what about magic?”

Here was where he’d find out how serious they really were. Aladdin couldn’t help but wish Instructor Myers’ rukh well, wherever she’d ended up. “If you want to do what I do, you have to exercise. A lot,” he emphasized. “Magic comes from _you_. Your body limits how much magoi you can use. When I first started learning serious magic... well, I’m never going to get that out of shape again!”

Just as he’d thought, two faces fell. Magicians were wimpy, and it took a lot of work to get past that.

“Oh... kay,” Prescott swallowed. “Exercise. Oh boy.”

“When those chains grabbed us, I didn’t know what to do.” Michaela’s voice was small. “I never want to be that helpless again.”

_Yeah. They just might do it_. “It’ll be tough,” Aladdin said sympathetically. “I never would have made it without Instructor Myers’ boobs!”

Alan facepalmed.

“She was _awesome_ ,” Aladdin went on. After all, he was supposed to be Simon’s nephew, right? That meant he had to keep up the family tradition of being outrageously awesome. “She wore this little metal armored top, and a little piece down there, and boots all the way up to her thighs. She’d crack her whip and make us run until we dropped. Push-ups, pull-ups, run up the stairs, run down the stairs... oh man. Some people would get sick, and some we had to drag. But every time I thought I just couldn’t take anymore, she’d scream at us and just _bounce_ , and....” He sighed, remembering that wonderful moment Myers had pillowed him in her breasts when he’d made first kodor. “That was the hardest two months of my life. But it was worth it.”

Prescott was polishing his glasses, using the excuse to go bug-eyed. Michaela was staring across the table at one happy magi. “...And you look so _innocent_.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” Morgan observed. “But they’re both gentlemen.”

Michaela winced. “Running until you drop.”

“Wouldn’t be smart, with Callimachus still out there,” Alan said matter-of-factly. “Move until you get tired, then do five minutes more. Work up from there.”

The pair still looked glum. Aladdin frowned. This wouldn’t work if they didn’t have hope they could actually _do_ it.

Alan was studying them both, brows drawn down. “Come on, I know gym sucks, but it can’t be as bad as the dungeon... what?”

Prescott and Michaela traded looks. “That’s right,” Prescott winced. “You probably haven’t heard about the obstacle course.”

* * *

“Vic said he has sharks with lasers!”

Studying the unexpectedly large grassy area Hancock High had hidden in the corner formed by one side of the football bleachers and the tall gray concrete wall of a skating park, Alan was not about to rule that possibility out.

_Guess that explains the extra-tall chain-link behind the bleachers_ , Alan decided, looking over tall rope swings across a long channel of muddy water, a tire footwork setup that made his ankles twinge just thinking about it, at least one artificial hill built in various tiers, and a wooden wall obstacle that was only two bracing posts away from being absolutely sheer. _You wouldn’t want to leave an attractive nuisance just lying open for anyone to waltz in_.

It’d certainly worked to keep him out. Chain-link might be easy climbing if you weren’t in a hurry, but it left you hanging out in the open as a target way too long. Now that he was inside the course, he knew he’d seen the third and fourth wall of extra-tall chain-link fencing this place off from the thick brush of the park on the other side, and automatically dismissed it as a potential escape route.

_Huh. Guess the question is, can I make it over that fence before the football team?_

Alan let a breath sigh out, and tried not to roll his eyes as the jock quotient of the class grinned and high-fived each other. _Save that for a last resort. We’ve got people to look after_. “You know,” he kept his voice low, just loud enough for Prescott and Michaela to hear it over their knees knocking, “that isn’t as impossible as it looks.”

Glasses cinched to her head with a mini-bungee cord, Michaela stared at him. Prescott wasn’t even managing that, staring at the wall with color draining out of his face like water.

But peeking out from behind Morgan, Aladdin gave him a wink. _Keep going_ , that look said. _They hear you_.

“I’m not saying it’s not hard,” Alan went on, voice still low. “But you have to think _around_ the obstacle. So you don’t have the muscles of those idiots who are going to tackle it first. So what? Stop thinking about muscle. Think _physics_. Remember? An object in motion tends to _stay_ in motion. _Don’t slow down_.”

“Physics?” Prescott’s voice was probably higher than he realized. “But - that tall, no way-!”

“Stay in motion, unless acted upon by an opposing force-” Michaela stopped herself. “Wait. Muscles - come in sets of pairs, work in opposition....”

Prescott seemed to shake himself, and finally look at her. “They do?”

“They do,” Morgan agreed. “Ask anyone who controls a punch in stunts. That takes more work than throwing one, because the muscles have to move _and_ ground the energy elsewhere, so you can halt the punch without tearing any tendons.”

“Momentum is mass and velocity, right?” Alan pointed out. “You don’t need as much muscle, as long as you don’t slow down.” He ran fingers through his hair; nerves, augh, who needed ‘em. “’Course, that means you kind of have to put up with some... crashing. Until you get the reflexes down.”

“Crashing,” Prescott echoed mournfully.

“And this is where it’d be so _cool_ to be able to do that flash-step thing you did with the dragon,” Michaela said wistfully. “You just _flickered_ , and then you were on top of it. That’d make this so easy....”

_Flash-step?_ “Wait,” Alan said under his breath. “I did _what?_ ”

The pair of them stared at him. Which was preferable to Prescott staring at the wall like it was going to crush his soul, really it was, no matter how much Alan wished they’d look somewhere else.

“Dragon,” Aladdin reminded them. “They keep you kind of focused on the big scaly fire-breather in front of you, not what you’re doing to stay alive.”

_Right_ , Alan thought. _Focus on the real danger, not the kids who just think they’re dangerous- Oh hell_. “I didn’t know this place was back here.”

Morgan nodded, curious. “Dougal and Ianatan say that’s the point. People don’t come out here without a good reason.”

“But Callimachus and Phaenomena went all around the school’s perimeter,” Alan pointed out. “They had to, to put down those foci.” He stared at the thick brush; cherry laurel, weeds he didn’t know yet, the familiar venomous purple-black of pokeweed berries, and long reaching tangles of greenbriar that could stab even through leather gloves.

Following his gaze, Morgan’s eyes narrowed.

“They could have seen this place, too.” Aladdin touched the wand up his sleeve. “Let’s go take a look.”

“But the coach is talking!” Prescott whispered fiercely.

“He can talk at me all he likes,” Alan shrugged, already heading for the chain-link. “After we make sure there aren’t any more surprises.”

_So I’ll be in trouble with the coach. What else is new?_

Between Aladdin, Tiburon, Malachy, and magic, there wasn’t time for him to be on a track team even if he’d wanted to try that again. And running he could do on his own. Who cared what happened in gym?

* * *

“Get him out of my class, Simon.”

“Good afternoon, good to see you too, Henry.” Simon leaned back in his office chair, brows up and interested. “I didn’t realize Aladdin would be that much of a problem in gym.”

Coach Grant pinched the bridge of his nose, and took a deep breath. “It’s not your cousin who’s the problem, Simon.”

_Right. Because it couldn’t possibly be that easy_ , Simon thought. “Ryans.” With Murphy running rampant, it couldn’t be anyone else. “So what exactly is the problem?”

“He thinks someone’s trying to kill him.”

Simon blinked. Leaned forward slightly. “Henry. I know you were here Monday. Someone _is_ trying to kill him.” Which was making him very, very cranky, and Simon knew it. Ja’far’s talismans should warn their three trouble-attractors if the alchemist came near them, and his updated wards ought to warn every armed teacher if Callimachus got in range of Hancock again. But there had to be some way to pin down where the hell Callimachus _was_.

_Only Ja’far doesn’t know much in the way of locating spells that don’t require a physical connection,_ Simon reflected, _and Aladdin’s rarely had to find trouble. It usually found him. Damn it_.

“Not my boys!” the coach said firmly. “They don’t deserve to be treated like they’re going to break someone’s leg the minute I’m not watching them. Get Ryans out of my classes before someone gets hurt.”

“Less than two weeks, and he’s already drowning,” Simon mused. “So basically, you’re saying that the minute you’re not watching them, someone _will_ try to break his leg.”

Grant gave him a dirty look.

_Not fair, no. Still_. “Am I wrong?” Simon said, more quietly.

“He’s not a team player,” the coach stated. “He can twist your words around until you’re standing on your head, there is _nothing_ I can motivate him with to move when he doesn’t want to, he’s _armed_ , thanks to you, and he’s a _Yankee_. And that was before he turned spooky. We’ve got to think of the rest of the kids.”

“Alan is spookier than Aladdin,” Simon mused. “Somehow, I didn’t expect that.”

“Simon, listen to me, damn it!” Grant’s hand slapped down on the desk. “I teach youngsters who want to kill the other team on the playing field. They’ve got to compete. They’ve got to have _fire_.” He took a long, slow breath. “Ryans is _burned out_. I don’t know why, and if you want me to be honest, I don’t care. He won’t fight unless something’s trying to kill him. I _don’t_ want that to be my boys. Get him out of my classes. Hand him to Tiburon; damn it, hand him to _Ja’far_. Right now I’m the only thing between a rattlesnake and a bunch of boys who think anything that doesn’t puff up and beat its chest is something they can poke with a stick.”

_Damn_. “I was hoping I’d made Hancock High a better school than that,” Simon mused. “Metal detectors, school resource officers, random locker searches - there are reasons we don’t have those here. Massacres happen because through some demented leap of logic, a community determines certain children are _expendable_. And then they look the other way, and shrug, while the favored children torment the scapegoats, and their teachers and parents egg them on. And then everyone’s so _surprised_ when some of the scapegoats turn out to have fangs.”

Color was rising in Grant’s face. “Now look here-!”

“Don’t worry. I’m taking Ryans out of your classes,” Simon said levelly. Tried to soften his tone, just a little. “I appreciate your honesty, Henry. I’d planned to do that anyway as soon as we had who was willing to take on the dungeon sorted out. If you say there’s already a problem - study halls until then are probably the best solution. Between Tiburon and Malachy, it’s not like he’s short of exercise.” He folded his hands over each other on his desk, meeting Grant eye to eye. “But you ought to know two things about that particular _rattlesnake_. First - if Tiburon’s reading his flinches right, he’s never been allowed to defend himself on school grounds before. Even by way of harsh language.”

The coach snorted. “That’s crazy. No boy would put up with-”

Simon slid his hands apart, and rapped his fingers hard on the desk surface; one swift drumroll of _attention_. “Isn’t that why you just asked me to take him out of your class?”

Grant was silent.

“Second.” Simon kept his words even, not cutting; this was an _explanation_ , not a dressing-down, if he could manage it. “Alan was raised by a single mother, in Massachusetts. Who died violently only three months ago. Since then he’s been dumped with relatives who don’t approve of him. Partly because he’s a Yankee.” _At least it’s easier to get that through than_ bastard. “I was hoping he’d at least get some space to breathe here, while he’s grieving a mother whose grave he can’t hope to reach without a _plane ticket_.”

The coach winced.

_Yes; I hoped that would leave a mark. Family is important here. Living or dead_. “Thank you for telling me how bad the problem is,” Simon said honestly. “Just so you know, Ja’far is also looking after him.”

Grant visibly relaxed at that.

_There are advantages to having someone with a ninja-scary reputation on staff_ , Simon almost chuckled. “And Tiburon thinks he can teach Alan better habits for dealing with young hotheaded idiots, given enough time,” he went on. “Do you think you can keep your idiots in line if Alan isn’t in gym?”

Grant frowned at him. “They’re not _idiots_ , Simon. They’re just boys being boys.”

Mentally, Simon counted to ten, backwards, in Ukrainian. “You implied they were threatening to harm a teenager only half their size because he didn’t _trust_ them.” _Is that what you call boys being boys?_

From Grant’s sideways glance, he didn’t have to hear the words. “I’ll keep an eye on them. If he’s not running the course against them, things ought to quiet down.” The coach shrugged. “Problem isn’t that he beat them all, Simon. Problem is that he blew them away, on his own, and he didn’t even _care_.”

_Alan, you really ought to hide that you’re still planning to run better than that, you’re smart enough to try to blend in- Wait. Wait one minute_. “He beat the rest of the class,” Simon stated, every word precise and deliberate. “How?”

Grant groaned, and scraped knuckles across his forehead. “I’m going to be seeing that in my _nightmares_... damn it, everyone _knows_ there’s rules about parkour on the obstacle course!”

_Alan knows-?_ Simon thought, stunned. Suddenly, quite a few things made a frightening amount of sense.

_What do you know. He really was planning to go out the window that day_. “Actually,” Simon said, feeling a bit sheepish, “Alan might not.”

“What?” Grant sputtered. “How could he not-”

“Third thing you need to know,” Simon sighed. “He’s recovering from about two weeks of dangerously high fever. The hospital says he’s clear, but Ja’far and Tiburon both believe he’s still getting his strength back. As far as I can tell, he walked through these doors knowing nothing more than this was the school his guardian wanted him in, and he didn’t have a choice in the matter.” Simon cleared his throat. “If I were sick, and tired, and grieving... I think I might have better things to do than read the brochure.”

* * *

_‘Wish you could have seen it,’_ Alan scribbled down in tiny Spanish on a piece of notepaper as he sat on the Silversmiths’ roof. _‘Not my fault no one told me you can’t run an obstacle course alone.’_

For those few brief minutes, he’d actually felt like he could do something that would _fit_. Sure, he’d stared at the people clogged up on all the features with a shudder of horror. You didn’t _do_ that, just because a piece of the landscape was stable with one person on it didn’t mean it’d stay that way with two or three, and one of the first rules of freerunning Mom had taught him was _know what you can handle_.

But Coach Grant had already been snarling at the fact they’d chosen to _check for traps, this is not a darned videogame, get moving_ -

So he’d moved.

Tied-together tires? _Anything_ could be down in those holes. Copperheads, rattlesnakes, scorpions; and if they ran into holes like that in the dungeon, probably much, much worse. No; tires were no place for fancy footwork. The rope ties themselves - _those_ were the solid points.

_Like hop-scotching over a skylight. Spin and weave, use the bounce of hard rubber like the bounce of wood railings, there and there and_ there....

Like he’d told the others, never slow down. He’d hit the wall at a run, diagonal, so he could bounce off the bracing posts, plant hands on the wall to whirl his feet up and past a gaping classmate’s head, bounce back the other way with a hands-free vault over the top so he could push _off_ the wall sideways and zig-zag back down-

Somewhere behind him, he’d thought he heard screaming. Though it hadn’t really hit the higher registers until he ran up the poles bracing the rope swings.

Because seriously. _Rope swing?_ Who was dumb enough to trust a rope that had been there who _knew_ how long?

Not to mention Alan had taken one quick look down into that wide trench of muddy water and recalled that yes, there _were_ alligators around here. No way was he going to risk falling off midway when his hands slipped on very wet, very muddy rope. Ugh.

_Bounce, run - short steps and fast, it’s narrow, don’t let the wind catch you_ -

This vault he _did_ use hands on; the pole on the other side was too narrow to risk missing it. Though the angle made him grin, and fling himself so he could just spiral his way down, like a marble in a chute.

_Oh yes, this works; Morgan’s cousins must love this place!_

And yes, he _had_ been showing off. Because there was no way he could match fists with a MacLea who could punch holes in rocks, but he could definitely _dodge_. And he’d seen Morgan watch when Malachy and Tiburon’s students showed off bits of agility, she sparkled and it was _so cute_....

So yeah. Coach Grant might have had some reason to be a little ticked at him. Ouch.

_‘Told him I’d run_ obstacles, _never an obstacle course,’_ Alan noted down. _‘He sputtered. I think you would have laughed. Seriously. Can you believe the guy thinks he’s scary? He doesn’t even carry a pocketknife! Now my Bio teacher -_ he’s _scary. You’d love him. Especially when he’s planning out how to fillet some bad guys.’_

He could see Maria’s face in his mind, dark eyes dancing as she hid a giggle behind her hands. He’d tried to get her to laugh more often. No kid her age should have so much worry and pain weighting her shoulders. She was _thirteen_. She should be reading and in school and sighing over idiot boy bands, not riding herd on a couple dozen kids younger than she was.

_Sister Thomasina’s helping her_ , Alan told himself firmly. _Though we could do more if she’d just talk to us, there’s something about those damn coyotes she isn’t telling us-!_

His mother’s last notes about the human traffickers were cryptic, the way they usually were when she thought she’d gotten her teeth into something she didn’t want him getting mixed up in. And she’d never gotten the chance to add more. But in a way, cryptic was enough.

_It’s not just foreign guys doing the smuggling. Someone else has to be involved. Someone official_.

Alan held his breath for two heartbeats, then deliberately blew it out. He couldn’t think of anything else he could do to crack that problem. Not from here. Not _yet_.

_‘Going to try using this as a focus, see if it works,’_ he finished scribbling. _‘If it does - well, maybe you’ll know that I’m cluing into the whole butterfly thing. I hope that helps. Take care, Alan.’_

Multitool in his right hand. Scrap of paper in his left. Cup both hands together, breathe, and _focus_....

_Maria. Friend. Little one. You don’t know her, Amon, but I think she saved my life_ -

Fire blazed in his palms, consuming paper in a phoenix-burst of flame. Ruby-gold, a tiny butterfly hovered in the nest of his fingers, wings stretching monarch-wide as it fluttered free. Flame-wings streaked north-northeast, and were gone.

Alan thumped back against the slope of the roof by his window, breathing a little fast. _Oof. Light-headed... did it work? It did something_.

“...Wow.”

Alan stared at a wide-eyed magi, and slapped a palm against his forehead. “Right. Flying carpet.”

“No, I just went out the window and climbed,” Aladdin said cheerfully, dusting off his hands as he sat down by Alan. “Though that’s not as hard when I know I can fly if I want.”

“Guess it wouldn’t be-” _Oh. Oh, that would be a_ really _good idea_. “Is it just the carpet?” Alan asked quickly. “Or can magicians fly without it? Because if you could teach Michaela and Prescott that....” He wasn’t going to blush. Even if he did feel like crawling off to hide. “Um. Coach Grant... kind of did have a reason to get mad at me-”

“No he didn’t!” Aladdin crossed his arms, scowling. “He said _run the course_. He never said how!”

“Maybe not,” Alan muttered, ears burning. “But freerunning’s dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. And Grant _doesn’t know it_.” He’d seen that in the sweat on the coach’s beet-red face, the way the man had looked between him and the obstacles after Alan’s run as if he still couldn’t believe his own eyes. “I didn’t know that. I didn’t even think about it. I mean, it’s an _obstacle course_. Where I came from, the only kind of people rich enough to have something like that wouldn’t just use it for _teamwork_.” He tried to shrug. “So when I told those two how to run it, I was... never mind what I was thinking. They could get hurt.” He bit his lip, and glanced at blue eyes. “Can you?”

“That’s Strength Magic,” Aladdin reflected. “Don’t think it’s their main affinity, but I think so. You want them to fly, in case they fall? Good idea.” He peered up at the sky. “Can you teach me what you just did with the rukh?”

“I’m not even sure what I did,” Alan admitted. “It was... something out of a story.”

“Sounds like a good story.” Wand in hand, Aladdin breathed deep, light gathering around carved wood. “Sometime I’d like to hear it.”

Alan watched the lights in fascination, with maybe a little envy floating around the edges. Aladdin made it look so easy.

_Years of training_ , Alan reminded himself. _That’s the point. Make what’s hard look easy_.

“Kind of like the Eye of the Rukh, I think,” Aladdin said, half to himself. “Only you were sending more... feelings? _I’m okay, stay safe_... a hug?”

_Uh-oh_. Alan tried not to sweat. _How do I explain this?_

“You’re looking after a little girl.” The glow vanished from around Aladdin’s wand. “Well, maybe not that little, I think Morgiana was that old when she started on adventures with us... why?”

_Damn it. I don’t want to lie to him. So - I won’t_. “Maria can pretty much look after herself,” Alan shrugged. “But she’s got a bunch of littler street rats to keep an eye on, and I just... worry. A lot.”

“What happened to their parents?”

Alan blinked, and slumped in relief. “I like you.”

“Um. Thanks?” Aladdin scooted a little closer across the shingles. “What’d I say?”

“Most people would ask, _where_ are their parents.” Alan huffed a breath, not quite a laugh. “Because _of course_ nothing _really_ bad happens to good kids. Or their families. So if you’re a kid on your own, or even half on your own- you deserve it.”

“Well, that’s crazy.” Aladdin propped his elbows on the roof. “My parents died before I was even born. It’s not like I could have done anything about it!”

“They... wait.” Alan looked Aladdin over, head to toe. Looked like all the important parts were there and intact. “How does that even work?”

“Ugo’s really, really smart,” Aladdin said proudly. “He didn’t tell me about it, but I found out from the rukh later. My mother died, but she’d used magic to keep me in stasis while she was fighting Arba, and Ugo was able to save me.”

“Wow.” Alan reached out, and pulled him in for a one-armed hug. “No wonder you’re worried about him.”

“I am.” Aladdin sighed. “But you’re right. If Baal thought he was _really_ hurt, he wouldn’t be letting us play around like this in his dungeon. So he’s going to be okay. I just can’t get to him yet.” Blue glanced up at him. “Like you can’t get to Maria.”

_Oh_. “How do you do it?” Alan wondered. “Just - keep going, without going crazy?”

“Ugo’s a Djinn.” Aladdin’s words had overtones of _duh_. “He can take care of himself. Maria’s a human. It doesn’t take as much for her to be in trouble. Especially if whatever happened to her parents comes looking for _her_.”

_Oof_. “I’m not sure what happened,” Alan admitted. “Most of them didn’t speak English, first time I ran into them. Heck, half of them still don’t speak Spanish. Mom and I ended up teaching ourselves K’iche’, and they still laugh at our- at my accent....” _Breathe_. “All I really know for sure is that wherever they came from, things were bad. Not starving-bad, not yet; but everybody knew it was coming. And someone offered the kids a chance to go somewhere else.”

“Just the kids?”

Oh good; Aladdin saw how suspicious that was, too. “That’s one of the things I couldn’t get out of them. Not as a straight story,” Alan stated. “Bits we put together, looked like some of the parents came. But none of them were with the kids when we found Maria.”

“That’s never good,” Aladdin muttered.

“Yeah,” Alan agreed, remembering the swarm of angry, terrified little eyes he’d faced after he’d chased down a girl for trying to pick-pocket his lunch. “We got them to meet someone who could start helping them out. Then we started asking questions, because something didn’t add up. The really little kids couldn’t tell us much, but it sounded like they were locked up somewhere, Maria and some of the older kids stole keys to get them out, and they ran for it. But Maria couldn’t talk about it. She’d just... get really pale, and start rocking, and-” He shook his head. “So we started working the document trail. Some of the kids made it out with papers. Not real papers, but fakes can give you all kinds of information if you know where to start turning over rocks. Mom was looking into those, before....” He closed his eyes a moment, feeling that black pit of pain threatening to open up again. “Anyway. Some of the kids’ stories, from back in their villages - they talked about sorcerers who could send birds and butterflies as messengers. And you and Ja’far both say the rukh carries information.” He ran nervous fingers through his hair. “So I guess I was trying to send an email.”

“Some of the magicians I used to know sent messages through the rukh.” Aladdin leaned against him. “You should do that more often.”

“Send email?” Alan wondered, confused.

“Play with magic.”

Oh great, this again. “It’s too-”

“It’s _not_ too dangerous,” Aladdin cut him off, still so oddly close. “Not with me around. I’m a magi. I can handle a whole Djinn’s power tossed at me.” His smile was pure mischief. “Amon’s a Djinn of fire. My specialty is _Heat Magic_. You think you can come up with a fireball I can’t swat?”

...Okay, he might have a point. “I just can’t figure out why it didn’t _work_ ,” Alan blurted out, before he could lose his nerve. “I tried to think it through-”

“That’s probably why it didn’t work,” Aladdin said sheepishly. “Amon probably hasn’t talked to you much. At least not as much as Paimon and Leraje talked to their contractors, and... he’s supposed to be your _partner_. You need to trust him.”

_Trust_. He tried not to flinch at the word. “Last time I did that, I ended up on top of a dragon.”

“We could go find another dragon.”

Alan stared at him.

“If that’s what we need to do, then let’s do it.” Aladdin looked utterly serious. “Amon is your Djinn. You’re his king. Ja’far says you need to use magoi, to get used to being whole again. Though maybe we should stick to the smaller dragons.”

“Smaller....” Alan rubbed his forehead, maybe a little harder than he had to. “I’m still having trouble with the _dragons_ part.”

“ _Smaller_ dragons,” Aladdin said firmly. “So you can figure out you can handle it. Just like I bet Tiburon’s going to want to see you go over just _part_ of the obstacle course. Until he’s sure you really know what you’re doing.”

_The obstacle course?_ “How is that anything like dragons?” Alan said in disbelief.

“You don’t-?” Aladdin pulled away a little, and gave him a surprised look. “Come on, it was _exactly_ like the dragon!”

_No way_.

Aladdin’s gaze dropped to where the multitool lurked under his shirt, then skipped back up to Alan’s eyes with exasperated amusement. “He knew the two of you could do it, it was the best way to make sure nobody got hurt - even the dragon didn’t get hurt, maybe a sore nose - and he wanted to _show off_.” He poked Alan’s shirt, right over enchanted metal. “You two are a lot more alike than you think.” A chuckle. “Amon never wanted to admit that before, either. I need to get you two to _talk_ to each other.”

“How can I talk to something that big?” Alan demanded. “It’s like trying to talk to a volcano. A _cranky_ one.” He dropped his voice, trying not to look as small as he felt. “He can see right through me.”

“The same way you talk to me.” Aladdin held out a hand. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

_I don’t want to lie to him. I don’t_. Alan took a deep breath, and clasped it. “I’m... working on it?”

* * *

“If we know who they are....”

Watching fiery wings streak northward, Callimachus shook his head. “The Castle Doctrine is not just a legal theory. _A man’s home is his castle_ is an emotional reality; and emotions can cause any user of magic to become dangerously unpredictable. If this is the home of his relatives, your Fire-Mouse will not feel restrained from deadly actions. And neither of us is currently capable of taking down the kind of power that can thwart a dragon.”

“Damn.” Phaenomena drummed her fingers on the van’s wheel. “Do you still think Ala’-adin is the link to Solomon’s Wisdom?”

“I do,” Callimachus affirmed. “And if they are unassailable together, we must find a lever to pry them apart.” He pointed. “Follow that butterfly.”

* * *

“Well, this is interesting.”

Floating unseen as the wind, Yunan paced the fiery little messenger. A clever little construct. The finer details were Amon’s work, as he’d expected; yet a surprising amount of the overlay of _where_ and _when_ and _who to find_ had been set by a human will.

_Alibaba’s reincarnation_.

That, Yunan had not expected. Alibaba and Morgiana’s sacrifice for their friend had been noble, necessary - and, the ancient magi had believed, utterly lethal. Not that he’d mentioned that to Aladdin.

_Amon wove his power in too deeply. He... cared too much, for just one king’s candidate_.

Sealing away Amon’s power with the rest of the Djinn had torn out part of two souls. What was left might have been able to support a shortened human life, but there was no possible way the rukh remaining could leave the flow and incarnate as living beings again. Yunan had only prayed that once Aladdin’s work was done and the Magi were released to the universe, he’d be able to avoid the youngest magi until the boy had shattered a few mountains grieving.

_Yet Alibaba is alive. How?_

Yunan brushed away a strand of platinum hair, and chuckled. _How else? Stubborn as water flowing to the ocean. He never had the strongest magoi of the kings... but his will to live was incredible_.

Which meant that, against all odds, Aladdin might be as safe as anyone could be in this world; even if he was under Sinbad’s care-

_No. Under the care of Sinbad’s reincarnation_ , Yunan reminded himself. _Baal thinks there is a difference_.

Hmm. Even Djinn could fall prey to wishful thinking. And yet... Baal’s tower still stood. Yunan had watched, as wide-eyed youngsters and wider-eyed teachers traveled the gateways; some returning with a brush of Baal’s presence, and all, so far, returning alive.

_Why?_

Well. Perhaps this little fire would shed some light.

_So what message are you carrying...?_

_Warmth_ surged through the rukh as Yunan reached out; _elder brother hugging younger sister, safe, don’t worry_.

_Sister?_ Yunan thought, confused. _Alibaba never had a_ -

Images now; sunlight and soaring over obstacles, laced with the feeling of a reckless grin. The sputtering image of a heavyset man who obviously thought he was in charge... and just as obviously, hadn’t impressed Alibaba one bit. The clearer, sharper image of Ja’far’s current incarnation, lit with respect, white threading through dark hair bright as the knives gleaming in his hands as the assassin faced-

_Aha_. There _you are_.

Just a flicker, but the feeling the magoi carried was unmistakable. Those brief images - one dark-clad man with shadowed rukh and a dark-haired female fighter wreathed in ghosts of other lives - fit the _feel_ of the energies Yunan had snatched from the air even as the Sanctuary was breached.

_Those are the two who took Aladdin_.

And the two who’d planted a magical trap around Sinbad’s school; Yunan had found their traces on what was left of the glassy Magic Tools after Amon’s Sword had seared them into useless bits.

_The two following this messenger right now_....

Yunan glanced at the flares of pursuing rukh below, and pondered his options.

Lifted his hand, and gave fire-wings a boost of magoi.

_Let’s make_ sure _you get where you’re going, shall we?_

* * *

Alan was right, Maria reflected, perched precariously above Sister Thomasina’s office, dust tickling her nose. Air vents sucked as listening hideouts.

Fortunately, drop ceilings worked a little better.

Sister was sitting stiffly in her chair, habit neatly pressed, staring up at the dark-haired man in a gray suit Maria could only glimpse through a hole in the tiles. “I really don’t see how we can help you, Agent Dominguez.”

“Sister, may I say again this is more than just a matter of possible kidnapping, or even a homicide investigation.” The agent’s voice was smooth, but the lightflutters around him rippled with worry, agitation, frustration. “We may have identified the second body found near the scene. The man’s name was-”

_No, no, no - not listening!_ Maria jammed her fingers in her ears, tipping herself back so she didn’t go crashing through the tiles. Because as long as she didn’t hear it, didn’t make it real in her mind, the lightflutters wouldn’t try to _help_.

_Help_. That was what Old Kasha had called it, years and half a world away, the first time Maria had screamed in the night after taking a bad fall. The lightflutters had swarmed her with images of _danger, what you fear, the sickening drop of stones from beneath small feet_ -

_“The spirits try to help you, child. To show you the peril, so you may face the fear.”_

The village’s herbwoman _might_ have meant well. Her mother had always said so. Maria only knew that the village had old stories of women of her blood going mad with what they saw... and every cliff she saw left her swarmed and crying, again and again, until even venturing across the world seemed safer than staying.

Yet even that hadn’t helped; cliffs of glass and brick were still cliffs, and it had taken all her will not to break when she’d found that the only door _out_ was the roof....

Her memory still skittered there, like a frightened water-strider. Somehow she’d found herself and her youngsters on the streets; somehow she’d worked up the courage to steal. And then run, without thought, only too late realizing that the boy she’d stolen from had chased her up, and the stairs of steel and rust were creaky and she couldn’t let go, no, letting go would make her _fall_ -

_“It’s only scary because you don’t know how to get down.”_ A strong hand reaching out to her white-knuckled fingers; a shy, sun-bright smile. _“Here. Let me show you.”_

Around Alan, the lightflutters sang a quieter song. Quiet enough that she could look away from the edge, look into gold eyes, and _listen_.

_This is how to not fall..._.

But Alan was gone now, and the lightflutters were anything but quiet. It didn’t matter; she _wouldn’t listen_. She already knew the man’s name. She _knew_. She’d known from the day the lightflutters had swarmed her whispering of _Alan in danger, he knows-!_

And she’d run and run so _fast_ and used every trick Alan and Señora Anne had showed her to make the city her playground, every rock-grumbling grasp of hand and foot the mountains of home had taught her. And she’d gotten there _first_.

And latched onto Alan’s hand right as he’d come out the door after middle-school finals, ignoring all the ugly looks from the townsfolk’s children. Idiots, who couldn’t see how lightflutters always brightened around her friend, but knew that he upset the way they thought the world should be.

He’d almost pulled away. _“Mom’s coming to pick me up-”_

_“But Xibal, I need you to look at something! It’ll only take a few minutes. Really!”_

_“Alright, Alixel. Just for a few minutes....”_

And Alan trusted her, so she’d gotten him away. Away from the killing danger.

Away from her father.

Maria slipped one hand away from her ear, biting down on a knuckle so she wouldn’t scream. It hurt, it _hurt_ ; and she couldn’t tell him, no, not ever, better that he was gone and safe instead of knowing why Señora Anne was _really_ dead-

_Fire!_

Maria blinked away tears at that wave of heat, determined to live. She didn’t think she’d called on the lightflutters, but she was upset and sometimes things happened-

_Fire-not-fire?_

Wings spread wide as a swallowtail’s, but gold and ruby instead of iridescent blue-black. It hovered in front of her, invisible to ordinary eyes, before settling into her cupped palm.

_Warm. Safe. I’m okay_....

It was like hug made of flames; a golden railing between her and that pit of despair.

_Miss you. Be well. Fly_....

Sunlight, flying over obstacles; a blurry image of a muscled stranger, a sharper one of a lean, gray-eyed man who... glimmered.

_A magician_ , Maria thought, stunned. _Alan saw a magician?_

More shadowy images, faces that whispered of _enemy, warning_... yet all circled back to that fiery hug.

_I’m okay, little sister. Stay safe_.

Reaching out, she pressed that fire to her chest, letting fluttery power sink into the crystal cross Kasha had given her years ago. Because this was Alan and warm and would _never_ hurt her.

A frustrated sigh, from the office below. “If you do have any news on Ryans’ whereabouts, Sister, please contact me. If I could interview him, it would be a great help to the investigation.”

“I wish I did know where he is,” Sister Thomasina said tartly. “I’d have a thing or two to tell him myself. Though I don’t think it’d be as helpful as you imagine. Miss Ryans was very protective of her notes and sources, and knowing they’re in someone else’s hands would have turned her stubborn as a sore mule. And her son took after her.” She shoved the chair back, and stood. “Good day, Agent Dominguez.”

The dark head bowed. “And to you, Sister. Thank you for your time.”

Sister Thomasina waited, barely tapping her toes as he headed out the door. And waited, and watched the clock, and finally sighed. “Maria, little one, get down from there.”

_Erk_.

Maria popped out a tile and touched down on the top of the black file cabinet, gently setting the tile back in place after she’d ducked through.

Sister waited until she had her feet back on the floor to sigh, and bat dust off dark hair. “I swear that boy taught you bad habits,” the nun grumbled.

Maria tried to look innocent. “Who taught who, Sister?”

“Who taught _whom_ ,” Sister Thomasina corrected gently. “I know you’re worried about Alan, but getting caught eavesdropping won’t help anyone.”

“I will not get _caught_ ,” Maria muttered, trying not to sneeze. “Alan, he is okay, yes? The Federales will not have him?”

“The federal government doesn’t want him-”

“Is no’ true.” Maria scowled up at her. “They want him. They just don’t know they want. Yet.”

“They want any information he might have on smugglers,” the nun said patiently. “That’s all.”

Maria dropped her head, and sighed. Hopeless. Sister cared, she cared so much - but she couldn’t see the lightflutters. She didn’t know what Alan did, just by being near. How he helped the little ones, the frightened ones, the youngest who couldn’t always control the little sparks and flames and dew dropping out of cloudless sky. Near Alan was _safe_.

“He’ll be alright,” Sister Thomasina said confidently. “He’s still posting that blog of his, isn’t he?”

Yes. He was. Though Maria wondered if Sister had noticed that subtle link on the Monday post, that led to another blog entirely.

_Backyard Dragons: A Survival Guide to Urban Cryptozoology_.

Which made her want to shake her head and giggle. Dragons, feathered serpents, quetzalcoatl - those were creatures lost in the time of legends. No one had seen them for as long as her mother and her mother’s mother had been alive. But there were _pictures_.

_And it’s Alan. The lightflutters move around him. If anyone could find a dragon... he would_.

Though if it really was a dragon, why had Alan’s regular blog said _arsonist?_

* * *

_If there’s an arsonist out there going by Callimachus, no one official’s picked up the alias yet_. Agent Domingo Dominguez paced the floor of a condo that had been thoroughly searched for evidence, stopping to stare at long-dried blood no one had bothered to clean up. Prior to Alan Ryans’ abrupt entry to the medical system, no one had wanted to touch something that looked all too similar to stories of Ebola. After, no one had cared. Poor kid. _But if Alan’s location leaked from someone, I don’t think it was Sister Thomasina_.

Not as comforting a thought as he’d wanted it to be, in the wake of the tense phone call he’d gotten last night about fire alarms, arsonists, and someone apparently targeting Alan in _Florida_.

At least Richard Silversmith had had the sense to make that call to the private number Domingo had given him. _Not_ his official agency number. Whatever was going on in Florida shouldn’t leak any more information that could be used against Alan... or himself, for that matter. On the one hand any judge presented with the facts would probably rule that as his father and sole surviving biological parent, Silversmith could take Alan anywhere. On the other, given Alan had made a fair argument to be left alone until he reached emancipation age, a legal busybody could make things sticky for the hapless FBI agent who’d stuck his neck out and _arranged_ a kidnapping. Even if it had saved the boy’s life.

Still. If Sister Thomasina still didn’t know where Alan was, then either the pilot Silversmith had hired wasn’t as trustworthy as they both thought, or someone in his Bureau had let something slip....

_Or someone put enough pieces together from his damn blog to work it out_ , Domingo sighed. _I need to talk to Silversmith again. No one who knows he’s still a possible target should be broadcasting even minor details of_ where he is.

Which led him to wonder if Alan _did_ know. Because while he’d never met Silvermith’s son while Alan was conscious and aware....

Domingo stepped into a dusty bedroom, looking over half a library’s worth of books, newspaper clippings, and various folders that had obviously come by way of Freedom of Information Act requests. And these were apparently _Alan’s_ research sources; Anne Ryans had had her own closet-turned-office-full. Much of which was now back in _his_ home office, as he combed through the morass of two decades of shoestring journalism for any clues to where the damn Guatemalan traffickers were.

_Someone who digs into stories this way - I don’t think he’d be feckless enough to broadcast his location if he knew he were a target. Even if he_ is _fifteen_.

Witness the gaps he’d found, digging through both Ryans’ sets of notes. Information he knew the pair had had - phone numbers, aliases, approximate street addresses of people who were _on_ the streets - simply hadn’t been written down. Or if it was written down, it was in code. And if he ever found out who had given Alan the idea that writing phone numbers in _hexidecimal_ was fun, he was going to do something drastic to them. Bamboo slivers and a phonebook came to mind.

_The phone call_.

Domingo could still hear that panicked young South American accent in his head, telling 911 that “the boy” had a fever and was bleeding... and then footsteps dashing out the door, just before the sirens arrived.

_If anyone suspected Alan was still involved with the trafficking victims, that would be proof enough_. The FBI agent grimaced. _And for the right person, 911 calls are easier to get access to than mine_....

His cell buzzed.

Domingo checked the number, then flipped it open. “What is it, light of my life?”

_“Domingo Jacint Damián Xisco Dominguez....”_

Oh dear. Well, if she’d pulled out all the names, it wasn’t a bleeding emergency. “What happened?”

Sarah chuckled. _“Your son thinks girls are icky.”_

“He is that age,” Domingo said seriously. “Just wait. I’m told in ten years we’ll be wishing he _still_ thought they were icky.”

_“Too true.”_ Her voice sobered. _“Are you at the Ryans’ apartment again?”_

“Someone appears to have targeted him... where he is,” Domingo said cautiously.

Sarah took a deep breath. _“You made sure he was hidden.”_

“I tried, yes.” Yet anyone who’d fast-talked their way into a glimpse of Alan’s birth certificate might have been able to figure out there was somewhere else he could go. “But no teenager could be unlucky enough to stumble into _two_ messes this size.”

_“You need a hug.”_

Perceptive lady. He was so glad he’d been sensible enough to marry her. “This one gets to me,” Domingo admitted.

_“Because the kids remind you of your grandparents’ stories, or because the encryption means there are so many holes in your little node charts?”_

“Some of both.” Domingo chuckled softly. Using node theory to track down and break criminal organizations seemed crazy, but in some cases, it worked. The Ryans had been a node, themselves, though the local cops looked at him sideways when he tried to lay out the diagrams. Simply put, in one specific area reaching from suburbs to bedroom town to back city streets, they knew _everyone_. Drug dealers, street rats, fences, people in positions to bribe city councilmen - name the less-than-legal, and they knew who to look for. And if they didn’t, they knew who _did_ know.

_I wonder if that was revenge?_ Domingo glanced over books in Spanish and more esoteric languages; most teenagers simply did not have a copy of the _Popul Vuh_ on their shelves. In English translation or otherwise. _Hound me to the outskirts of civilized society, I’ll find out all the secrets you don’t want anyone to know_.

But then, given the well-thumbed Dr. Seuss books, the _Hobbit_ , and various other works of a practical and fantastic nature whose fingerprints indicated they’d been loaned through several hands, Domingo doubted Alan had had time for anything as petty as revenge.

“His guardian seems to think he’s safe. For the moment,” Domingo admitted. “I want to _talk_ to him.” He frowned. “But that might be difficult to arrange. For several reasons.” Not least of which being, if Alan _didn’t_ know he was in danger....

_Then there are many things Richard hasn’t told him. He won’t want me breaking the truth to the boy_.

On the one hand, Domingo could sympathize with that. If someone had tried to tell him how to raise _his_ son, Domingo knew he’d be very tempted to set aside the polite morals his parents had raised him with and reach back to the stories of the violent clan-feuds his grandparents had fled, half a century ago. You tampered with a man’s children at your own peril.

On the other hand... until a month ago, Richard had been only a fleeting presence in his son’s life. And Alan had lived in far more dangerous conditions than Domingo suspected a successful attorney could imagine.

_“I know that sigh,”_ Sarah observed. _“That’s the ‘I’ve hit a wall’ sigh.”_

“I have,” Domingo nodded. “And I think I’ve burned enough overtime for today. Shall I let you poke holes in my silly numbers?”

_“They’re not silly and you know it. And if you’re willing to listen to stories of fingerpainting first? Absolutely.”_

“Fingerpainting?” Domingo said incredulously. “What do they _teach_ them in schools?”

_“Not gun safety and hand-to-hand.”_ Sarah’s smile rang in her voice. _“So get home and tell Matt how to turn fingerpaint into a weapon of teacher destruction.”_

“...You know me too well.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> K’iche’ and all the Quechuan-related languages actually have different words for siblings depending on who’s referring to whom. _Xibal_ is brother of a sister. _Alixel_ is “princess”.  
>  Agent Domingo Jacint Damián Xisco Dominguez - if you can’t guess who he is from that, you need to go read the Sinbad chapters.....  
>  _The Phoenix_ was a very short-lived cheesy 80s science fiction show - 1982, only a month. It drew heavily off Erich von Däniken’s _Chariots of the Gods?,_ had less than plausible special effects, and mixed mythology like a Cuisinart. Simon would have it in classes as an example of what _not _to do.__  
>  In the course of researching this fic I finally. FINALLY. Tracked down the actual formal name for the clothing that Djinn Equip is an Impossibly Cool Clothes version of. The modern Indian name for it is a “dhoti wrap”.  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clothing_in_India  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dhoti  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_clothing_in_India  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Indus_Valley_Civilization  
> And I was able to track down the actual reconstructed Proto-Indo-European names for the wrap and belt.  
> yéh3es "gird" - belt. Transliteration I’d use: yéqʷes.  
> y in yes, é as in they, qʷ - A voiced velar fricative, a sort of gargling noise, similar to the way some Parisians pronounce the "r" in “Paris.” e as in met. s is voiceless as in sin.  
> wospo/eha - garment, wrap. Transliteration I’d use: wospoex.  
> w pronounced as in English. o as in pot. s is voiceless as in sin. p is plain as in Romance, Slavic or Greek languages, not aspirated as in English. e as in met. x - The final sound in German "Bach;" a voiceless velar fricative.  
> Apparently we really can’t reconstruct many PIE words for clothing. We’ve got plenty of words for leather, cloth, weaving, thread, wool, etc. - but only those two for clothes!  
> As far as archaeologists can determine about PIE culture? Some variant of the “dhoti wrap” style and a lot of jewelry - i.e., yes, _what you see Djinn Equips wearing_ \- is what they wore! The bunnies are dying of laughter.


	13. Princess Charming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richard comes to talk. There is Awkwardness. Morgan is actually less awkward. But not by much.

_So it’s in here after all_. Sitting at his desk the next evening, computer off, Alan squinted at what had to be at least page five of the thick Hancock High introductory pamphlet. _“L’art du déplacement.” Guess that’s easier for rich parents to wrap their brains around than parkour, freerunning, or “you height-loving maniacs”_.

Which, damn it, just wasn’t true. He didn’t love heights. He just didn’t hate them. And if he was looking for someplace other people weren’t - the higher, the quieter. He’d forgotten how many rooftops he’d perched on with his mother, catching blue skies or starlight; talking out story leads, or what’d happened in school that day, or not talking at all-

_She won’t even recognize me._

_...Wouldn’t. Wouldn’t recognize me. Damn it_.

Alan buried his face in his hands, aching. He’d kept his hands out of his hair while he was still in view of Morgan and the others, but once he’d gotten back to the house, he _had_ to look. Because it had to be a joke, right? A really, really _stupid_ joke, he knew what he looked like, mouse-haired ordinary guys didn’t just start going blond-

Only there it was, right at the roots and maybe a knife-thickness farther. A bright, golden blond, like dust sparkling in sunshine.

_I’m going to stick out like a sore thumb_.

He knew what his mom would have wanted. Anne would have already dragged him to a sink to dye it, rebuilding that healthy wall of anonymity that kept them out of more trouble than any martial arts could. All the while making notes on exactly what Aladdin had done to spark this off, and how she was going to make sure he never did it to _anyone else_.

_Except I don’t even know if he did this. He said he didn’t_.

Anne Ryans would say there were a hundred ways to lie while telling the exact truth. She’d seen them all.

_But he’s not doing it to hurt me_ , Alan thought. _Aladdin - he has_ blue hair. _I don’t think he’s ever tried to be invisible in his life_.

What was it like, walking through the streets as boldly as Aladdin did? Like a blue jay in a flock of starlings, bright and loud and friendly to anyone who looked even half likely to be friendly back. It gave him the shivers, thinking of the chances Aladdin was taking-

_Magi_ , Alan reminded himself. _Has to be a little easier to get along with people when you know you could drop a fireball on their heads_.

Which brought his mind circling back to what Aladdin _had_ said was responsible for this mess. The hitchhiker in his life-energy and mind. The Djinn who’d made a contract with him.

_Wish I’d gotten a chance to read it first_. Alan took a deliberate breath. _Amon? If you’re doing this - why? Just tell me that. Please_.

Silence. Right, like he’d expected anything else-

: _You spoke of Phoenix, before,_ : There was a sense of ancient patience, like long fingernails stroking a white beard. : _Her answer is yours: Because, like the sword of Excalibur to Arthur, it is yours by right_.:

_That’s not_ -

: _Young Ja’far is correct. Humans born of this world can tolerate high levels of magoi... to a point. But I am of the Household of Solomon. You, all the Generals, would pass that point too quickly, and for too long._

: _But within you, you bear the seeds of another world; another time. And you are_ my king. _I will not see you broken and maimed by me!_

: _...I harmed you once. Not again_.:

Silence. Not even a whisper of flames remained.

_The seeds of another world_. Alan swallowed hard. _Maybe Kwan wasn’t wrong after all_ -

A heavy knock at his bedroom door. Firm. Authoritative.

_Not Aladdin_ , Alan knew, blowing out the candle on his desk. Trying to blow away queasy fears with it; whatever Amon was or wasn’t doing, was not something he planned to discuss with _anyone_ not up to their ears in Djinn and magic with him. “It’s not locked.”

Which wasn’t an invitation. If by some stroke of ill luck Mrs. Silversmith was out there, she’d probably be politely breathing fire at the lack of manners. But if he _did_ say _“Come in,”_ she’d be even more ticked off; because that would imply he had the right _not_ to let her in, and she’d made it very clear he had no rights to be breathing in this house, much less claim any of it.

_If I’m going to get yelled at anyway, I’d rather get yelled at for something I actually_ did.

Opening the door, Richard Silversmith took a moment to glance at the top bunk Miss Tanya had gotten installed over Alan’s bed.

Alan kept his face politely neutral, confident he’d messed with and remade the covers enough to give the impression Aladdin had actually been sleeping up there, instead of curling under Alan’s covers like a fluffy blue cat. The magi might not care about people jumping to the wrong conclusions, but Alan had had enough scars from that already. He didn’t want to see them on Aladdin, too.

_Callimachus had him for a month. He said they didn’t hurt him, but... if he doesn’t want to sleep alone, I’m not going to take that from him_.

Anne would have understood. But she knew street kids. When a bunch of Maria’s kids all puppy-piled together, sex didn’t have anything to do with it. It was staying warm. Touching another human being. Just breathing, next to someone who wouldn’t hurt you.

Aladdin wasn’t a street kid. But he needed _someone who won’t hurt me_ as bad as anyone Alan had ever seen.

_And, maybe... so do I_.

Mr. Silversmith closed the door behind him. “You were very quiet at supper,” he noted. “Is everything all right at school?”

Alan gripped the arm of his chair, not sure whether to blink like a sun-startled owl or start laughing hysterically. _All right at school? Where do I even start?_ “The new schedule’s a little... full.” _Of dragons and monsters and life-draining alchemists_. “Next week I should be caught up.” _Assuming I’m still alive_.

“Good,” Mr. Silversmith said, a little too quickly. “I mean - my messages from yesterday had a call from Coach Grant. You... won’t be allowed in track?”

Alan tapped the brochure. “School policy for people taking some of the stunt elective training. The coach doesn’t like people showing off. Says the only _distractions_ should be the cheerleaders.” He shrugged. “I asked around; sounds like he has reason. Some other schools’ coaches almost had heart attacks when students would go down in boneless heaps.”

The lawyer stifled a snort of laughter. “I can see how that would give Hancock athletes a psychological advantage.”

“I hear other coaches call them the Hancock Hams,” Alan said wryly. “So - it’s going okay. I guess.” _Head him off before he pushes too far that way_. “It’s not school. When I’m quiet, Mrs. Silversmith’s less upset. And she’s hurting enough already.”

“Edna is....” His father trailed off, looking him over carefully. “I have to admit, she hasn’t been very nice to you.”

“And this is news?” Alan tried not to roll his eyes. “You want honest? Here’s honest. She doesn’t like me. Fine. At least she _says_ she doesn’t like me, instead of moseying around dropping comments to her whole lunch club about the scandal, isn’t it so sad, what a _promising_ life that young woman wrecked.” Probably because Edna didn’t want to be part of the scandal. Which at least showed she had brains enough not to cut off her nose to spite her face. He could respect that. “Compared to the old church ladies back home, she’s _polite_.”

Mr. Silversmith’s shoulders stiffened. “Anne never said there were... problems.”

“Yeah. I can believe that,” Alan reflected. “Why talk about something you can’t fix? Works better to go find a cause you can write an article on.” He shrugged again. “So far nobody’s been shot, stabbed, or slammed in a locker. This is the safest school I’ve been to.” Outside of the dungeon. But he could fight the dungeon. Fair enough.

_“Shot.”_

“Get enough idiot gang-wannabes in one place, sooner or later someone does get shot....” Alan trailed off, not sure what to make of the expression on that bearded face. “Relax, okay? I was never there when something like that happened. An ear to the ground’s good for more than just blogging. Besides, the best way to steer clear of stuff like that was to vanish when people started swaggering. I’m pretty good at it.”

“Vanished by way of jumping off rooftops?” Mr. Silversmith’s jaw tightened. “I did look up _L’art du déplacement._ I trust Simon’s judgment, but this time he may have gone too far. You could get hurt-”

“Freerunning?” Alan blurted out. “I’ve been doing that for _years_.”

“Years?” The lawyer blanched. “How could you sneak out on your mother like that?”

“Sneak out,” Alan said blankly.

Brown eyes narrowed. “If she had any idea you were doing anything that dangerous-”

Okay, that was it. “Who do you think _taught_ me?”

Richard stared. Took a deep, deliberate breath, and crossed his arms. “Explain.”

“Explain _what?_ ” Alan burst out, flinging up his hands in frustration. “That she had a life you weren’t there for? That she had friends you never met? I’ve been babysat by _traceurs_ as long as I can remember. That she liked a little danger in her life? She fell in love with a _married man_. How much more dangerous can you get?”

_Don’t lose your temper. Don’t. You could burn the whole house down_.

Part of him thought that was a great idea. Which just went to show that he wasn’t nearly as grownup as he’d like to think.

“I’m not doing that to anyone else.” Alan fisted his hands at his sides not to echo those stubborn crossed arms right back. “Your wife won’t believe it, but it’s true. If I ever - _ever_ \- feel like making eyes at someone who belongs to someone else... I don’t care who it is, I don’t care where I am. I’m turning around and walking right back out the door. _I’m not doing that to someone else_.”

Brown eyes closed a moment in grief. “I loved your mother.”

“I know,” Alan got past the lump in his throat. “And she fought the whole world for you. But a kid can’t fight the world. So Mom taught me to run.” He glanced aside, trying to lower the level of pain flickering dark through the rukh. “She started freerunning to get back into shape when I was - she said six, maybe seven months. Just took me along in a backpack. I have pictures... had pictures.” Gone now, probably forever, except the few that he’d happened to have saved in the flash drives that’d made it down here. “Can’t remember when I _wasn’t_ climbing and bouncing off things. It drove all my teachers crazy. But Mom made sure I never took a jump I didn’t know I could do. The principal’s not going to get me to quit being careful.” He tried for a smile, and knew he’d failed. “You want me to do something _dangerous_ , try taking me skiing. All I know how to do with snow is stomp through it and shovel it. Strap flat boards to your feet and go screaming down a mountainside? Now _that’s_ crazy.”

“There’s not a lot of snow in Florida,” the lawyer observed, leaning against the doorframe.

Alan mimed wiping sweat off his forehead. “Saved.” Although not, because leaning like that meant Mr. Silversmith wasn’t planning on heading anywhere for a while.

_Now what do I do?_

It wasn’t the first time he’d been trapped in an awkward silence with his... father. But this time, there wasn’t going to be a familiar smile and laugh to get him out of it.

_Mom. I miss you_.

“Is there... any reason she said you did track, not freerunning?”

Weird. Almost sounded like Mr. Silversmith felt as much on thin ice as he did. “Nobody competes in freerunning,” Alan said honestly. “You find people who are, you stay away from them. It’s....” He had to work his fingers loose from fists, trying to find the calm to just talk. “Track is simple. You, the course, the coach telling you how to run it. Freerunning - the point isn’t flipping over an obstacle any one way, the point is getting from A to B _in one piece_. You wouldn’t go over a fence the same way I would....”

And damn it, he was going to sit right here and not freak out, even when the world seemed to split and double, the ghost of a tall blond noble in silks and gold and emeralds weighing him from Silversmith’s eyes.

_Damn it_.

“Yeah, there’s a reason,” Alan admitted, trying to hold that tangle of anger and confusion and _wanting to be loved_ at arm’s length. “She wanted me to have a hole card. Some of the people in town... egged on the idiots, you know? So we didn’t talk about freerunning, we just _did_ it. So when someone tried to corner me, and they couldn’t, they always thought it was just, _he’s a runner who got lucky_. Not, _he knows how to get away, let’s make sure we break his legs first next time_.”

Horrified silence.

“You asked,” Alan muttered. Braced himself, and looked up, ghost or no ghost. “That’s why... I don’t mind that Mrs. Silversmith’s mad at me. Honest. At least she’s got a _reason_. Everybody else back home - it’s not like what Mom did ever hurt _them_. We were just there.”

“I wish she’d said.” Richard had wrapped his hands over each other, gaze on his wedding ring. “I would have tried to... I don’t know. Do something.”

“Mom didn’t want to hurt you.” Alan sighed. “She never wanted to hurt anybody. She just wanted to help people.” _And I’m not like her. I’m not that good, ever. Protect people, sure - but damn it, when someone tries to hurt somebody, I want to kick their knees out and_ stomp _on them_.

Not that he ever had. Running was a _much_ better option. Always.

Besides. The few times he’d ever been in a fight before crazy alchemists showed up, there’d always been at least three of them to one of him and just getting out in one piece was win enough.

“Anyway,” Alan got out. “Get up early for freerunning practice and get to skip out on gym? I’d call that a win.” He shook his head. “And so will Coach Grant. I’ve never seen a guy turn that red before. For a minute there I thought I’d killed him. Or he was going to kill _me_.” Now he could smile. “But here I am in one piece.”

“...Yes,” Richard nodded. “Yes you are. I’m glad.”

Alan tried not to blink too obviously. That was definitely someone trying to avoid answering a question. And he hadn’t even asked one.

_So what gives?_

“Although, I have to admit I’m a little worried about this Callimachus character Simon believes set off a flare at your school,” Richard went on. “Do you know why he’s fixated on Aladdin? Although, who can tell with someone obviously not entirely sane why they do anything?”

“Actually....” Alan scratched at the back of his head, and gave his father a wry look. “From what I heard him say, the guy dove into the _Arabian Nights_ and never quite came back out. He thinks Aladdin has the power of a Djinn.”

For a long moment, the older man stared at him. Then, deliberately, clapped one hand to his forehead.

“The lack of logic, it burns,” Alan agreed.

Richard heaved a deep and exasperated sigh. “If _anyone_ had the kind of power to raise castles in a single night, vanish people across the world, and call down fire, typhoons, and lightning, _why would they let a mere mortal catch them?_ ”

Um. And what exactly was he supposed to say to that? “Maybe he thinks he managed to catch Aladdin off guard the first time?” Alan tried. “Who knows. He’s missed twice now. Maybe he’ll give up.”

“And maybe he won’t... what’s so funny?” Richard frowned.

Alan waved a hand, trying not to snicker. “If he tries something _now_ \- Aladdin’s studying with Mr. Zvezdilin.” He grinned. “Darwin Award in the making.”

* * *

“Her name’s Maria.” Aladdin ran his fingers over the odd green apophyllite stone that was one of the components Ja’far wanted to use, feeling how it sang quietly in the rukh of connection to the spirits and _walking in fire._ “And I think she’s a magician. Or she could be.”

“One of a group of youngsters from a village in trouble who don’t speak English, don’t have parents with them, and probably aren’t here legally,” Ja’far said half to himself, running down their sketch of rukh-commands that would hopefully buffer past memories from present ones long enough for the memory-spell to fit them together smoothly. “What is it about Alibaba that _attracts_ these people?”

“Oh, and Sinbad didn’t attract people in trouble?” Aladdin smiled at memories of all the strange and varied people he’d met in Sindria; misfits and wanderers from around the world, all rallying around the man they believed in. “They’re _kings_. They look after people. It’s what they do.”

“Right now Alan’s not even certain he can look after himself,” the reluctant magician grumbled. “Which makes it all the more likely he’ll do-”

“Something stupid,” Aladdin sighed.

“I was going to say reckless.” Ja’far gave him a stern look. “I know how you feel. But not relying on someone you don’t trust yet _isn’t stupid_. It’s sane. Yes, Sinbad would put his life in the hands of people who’d been hired to kill him, because he believed in them. That was Sinbad. _Simon_ has learned to be a little more cautious.” He hesitated. “Though not by much.”

“But I’m not....” Aladdin had to put the pale green crystals down, and blink; the room was just a little blurry from tears. “I told him we were friends, and he said he was trying to be....”

Pages rustled as Ja’far set them down, rounding the table to put a hand on his shoulder. “He’s trying. That’s harder for him than I think you know.”

Aladdin could feel the truth in Ja’far’s words. Didn’t make it hurt any less. “But _why?_ ”

Ja’far’s sigh made the rukh shiver, silver flashing moon-dark and back again. “In the world you came from, being a king’s bastard son was no cause for shame. Nobles had other lovers; everyone knew that. Even their wives. In this world, in this time and place? Being illegitimate puts you outside polite society, forever.”

Aladdin took a deep breath, and tried to think past the hurt. “You mean... it’s like Alan has always been on the streets, and he knew he’d never get out.” Like Alibaba had been with the Fog Troupe, and that had been a _mess_. “And everybody thinks they can _use_ the street rats, they always do, and Cassim didn’t care as long as he got to hurt the nobles but Alibaba was smart enough to _see_ what people were trying, and it tore him up inside....” Oh. Oh, that _hurt_. “But there has to be a way out! There has to!”

“There is,” Ja’far said firmly. “At least there is _here_. If you’re good enough at what you do, people don’t care where you came from.” He shrugged, a soft whisper of linen. “We just need to keep him in one piece long enough for people to see he is good. And for _him_ to see we’re not trying to use him.”

“That’s why he’s so shy around Morgan,” Aladdin said, half to himself. “Back then Morgiana was a slave, and the Rens couldn’t get why he wouldn’t just marry Kougyoku and take Morgiana as a concubine. This time around....”

“Morgan is the princess,” Ja’far finished, with his own small smile.

“Wow.” Aladdin nodded, determined. “I definitely need to get them hugging more.”

Ja’far gave him a sideways glance.

The magi couldn’t help but chuckle. When someone had _Ja’far’s_ hair standing on end, they’d really pulled off something spectacular. “I saw it when he was working on his notes. He takes a pen and recopies _everything_. And on the roof with Amon. And sword-fighting, and everything. He’s still like Alibaba that way. He needs to move. To _feel_ things. That’s more important than words.”

“Hmm.” Ja’far’s raised eyebrow said he was at least considering it, as seriously as any battle-plan. “The trick will be getting close enough for hugs without violating personal space. People in this country are raised to be much less... demonstrative, than you’re used to.”

“I know.” Aladdin was not going to roll his eyes, no matter how much he wanted to. “This place reminds me of the Kou Empire more _all the time_.”

“Well, empires have bureaucracy, and that tends to breed....” White-streaked eyebrows bounced, and a small smile touched Ja’far’s face. “You might want to ask Alan to research that.”

Aladdin winced. “But the Kou Empire’s all kinds of bad memories.”

“No, not the Kou Empire specifically,” Ja’far shook his head. “You come from a land of _kingdoms_. This land is a republic - and not one like Balbadd tried to be, a city where everyone knew everyone else, or knew someone who did. This country is too big for that. Like the nation I came from, whenever I had to deal with someone who wasn’t part of the clan. These days most countries have bureaucracy, just as the Empire did, and people learn to behave certain ways to deal with that. They _keep their distance_. Literally.”

“Oh,” Aladdin said blankly, thinking about how spread out people were even eating lunch, how Alan always startled when he got close, how careful Tiburon and Malachy were touching students, when they needed to show them how to change their movements.... “Oh!” And _ow_. “Isn’t that lonely?”

“It can be.” Ja’far’s eyes were shadowed. “Ask him to help you look up the _Arabian Nights_. Those stories range across the Middle East and beyond. You need to know about empires - and _he_ needs to know about clans.” Gray glinted in a truly wicked smile. “Though you do have an advantage here. If you look like _you_ need a hug....”

Aladdin smiled back, warmed. That was one thing that hadn’t changed a bit. Alan couldn’t ignore someone who needed comfort either.

“Just move carefully. You’re wading in dangerous waters.” Ja’far spread out their notes. “More dangerous than this, in a way... do you really think this will work? The Magnos spell is meant to work very, _very_ quickly. I know part of that’s because we had limited magoi to work with, but the clan elders always thought spending too much time in the past would be deadly.”

“I think they’re right,” Aladdin said soberly. “The past life is a different world. We can’t _live_ in it. It’d be like trying to breathe water. That’s part of why it’s such a shock. When you’re in the spell, you’re drowning.” He glanced up from that part of their notes, relieved. “Good thing Yamraiha was a Water Magician. I know how to deal with drowning.”

“So we build a diving bell.” Ja’far skimmed over those commands again, frowning.

“Like a water-spider,” Aladdin nodded firmly. “We still don’t want to keep someone there too long, but just a little while? So you can see both lives, and the spell can take some time stitching stuff together? I think we can do it. Especially with the lotus scent to help.” He straightened, looking over the wide set of crystals and scents and weirder components Ja’far had spread over his research table while they narrowed down what might work. “Charging pieces of the world with just a little magoi, so magic resonates with the rukh already in them. Instead of making a Magic Tool to do just one thing, you have a kit that can do a _lot_ of things, as long as you know how to put them together. That’s just so _neat_.”

Ja’far turned slightly pink. “It takes a lot of time and effort to build a useful components kit. Even if you do know how to assemble one, it’s not as versatile as magic woven straight from instructions to the rukh. And spells using components take much more time. In the middle of a fight, that’s deadly.”

“But if you’re not, magic cast this way uses less power, right?” Aladdin touched the warm cabochon of amber, feeling its echoes of life and light. “After what I saw in Magnostadt... that’s important.” He looked up at Ja’far. “If we teach enough people magic, if people want what it can do - we have to make sure it doesn’t suck people dry.” He took a deep breath, and sighed. “I still don’t know what we should do about the Fanalis.”

“One impossible problem at a time,” Ja’far stated. “Let’s give some of these pieces a trial run, then get you home.”

* * *

It only took three rattles of gravel on glass before Alan shoved up his bedroom window and gave her a _look_. “You know, in all the movies I saw, I’m supposed to be the one doing this.”

Perched in the closest tree as the night closed in, Morgan straightened her shoulders, and watched him try not to blush. “Come running with me.”

“Ah... um....”

“The talismans will warn us if Callimachus gets close,” Morgan reminded him. “My family thinks it’s safe enough.”

Aladdin poked his head out past the stammering teen, eyes bright enough that whatever magic he’d done with Ja’far had to have gone well. “Run where?”

“Anywhere.” Morgan shrugged, one hand hanging onto lichen-encrusted live oak. “What you did on the obstacle course - I know some of it. But my family only does that when we go out camping somewhere we won’t be seen, and-” Words just weren’t enough. “It looked like _fun_.”

And she’d talked to Aunt Shionne, who knew all about shy boys. She had a plan.

“Oh... kay?” Alan took a breath, and shook his head. “Move over. No, not that branch!”

Morgan sniffed the decay in the air, and clambered past it. “I know. It’s rotten.” She raised a red brow. “How did you know?”

“Shelf fungus growing out of it’s a big clue,” Alan stated, measuring distances with his gaze. “You don’t have loads of freezing rain down here, but that’ll go in the next windstorm... what?”

Aladdin didn’t stop grinning. “It’s neat to see how you two do the same thing. You just get there different ways.”

Something that just might be mischief glimmered in gold eyes. “Oh, and you think you’re getting out of this?”

Aladdin almost backed up a step. “Um... I can fly?”

“Flying takes magoi,” Alan pointed out. “And you need exercise to keep that up, right? Come on.”

Morgan tilted her head, intrigued. Alan sounded confident. But from the pure nerves she could scent, and the stammering...

_Don’t leave me alone with the pretty girl when I don’t know what to say!_

Which made her feel a little warm, and oddly happy. It was just... nice, to have someone with eyes for her that didn’t come from the sports-mad crowd. Someone who didn’t think he deserved her attention just for existing.

_Someone who wants to know what I think is fun, and do it with me_. She smiled. _Even fighting monsters_.

“Okay,” Aladdin said in a rush; eyes squinched as if he just wanted to get it over with. “But even if I can run - there’s no way I can keep up with what you did. Not without magic.”

“You can’t keep up _yet_ ,” Alan said firmly, sliding out the window onto the roof. “Nobody starts out able to fling themselves over walls in a single bound.” He cast Morgan a quick flash of a smile. “Well, maybe Fanalis can. But I bet you can do more than you think.”

Aladdin winced a little, and followed, window sliding softly closed with a wave of his hand. “I don’t know about that. I’m a _magician_.”

“So is Ja’far,” Morgan pointed out, amused.

“Yeah, but... he’s _Ja’far_.”

“Well, we’re not going to start with rope-knives flinging in all directions, so relax.” Alan checked where she was in the tree again. “First thing you need to know is that everybody tackles obstacles differently. No one moves exactly the same way; no one has exactly the same strength. Watch how we move, then do what you think _you_ can.” Feet precisely placed on the roof, Alan lined himself up with a thick branch near the trunk, and leapt.

Morgan flinched forward an inch despite herself. Most people outside her family _couldn’t_ jump that far, she’d have to grab him-

But Alan touched down on the limb with barely a scuff of sneakers, hands gripping branches to pull himself closer to the trunk. There. Safe.

Morgan let out a huff of breath, shoulders slumping. “Scared me.”

“Oh.” Alan blinked. “Um, sorry? I’ve jumped farther. Usually with a running start, though.” One hand let go, flicking through an arc. “Roof-hopping. _Much_ better than getting caught in an alley. Though you always want to check for clotheslines, first.” He peered back at the roof, and the nervous magi waiting at the edge. “Take it easy. Calm down. If you’re just starting, this is too far. You’d bang your tendons up, even if you made it. So... you could just jump to get the feel of it? Then fly.”

“...Oh.” Aladdin gulped for breath. “Yeah. That sounds like a better idea. How do I...?”

Alan leaned back against the trunk, as if they had all the time in the world. “First, pick where you want to get to....”

Morgan listened as Alan talked their younger friend through what to look for, how to move, how to lean into the jump and _push_ -

Aladdin made it about halfway, then soared to their reaching hands. “Oof.”

“The better you get, the more quiet you can be,” Alan noted, still gripping his hand.

Morgan nodded, leaves brushing through her hair; glancing at the magi’s feet to be sure he had his balance before she let go. “Stealth is important. Don’t get caught.”

“That, too.” Alan’s gaze went distant and sheepish a moment, as if he were recalling a few times he hadn’t been stealthy. “But quiet means when you land, you’re not grounding the energy in a hard-on-hard impact; your bones and whatever you bounced off of. _Quiet_ means you let your muscles take the shock and spread it out, so you don’t get hurt.”

“Like... water taking a blow instead of ice?” Aladdin said thoughtfully. “If all the water moves a little - ice would shatter.” He glanced at Morgan, questioning.

Morgan found herself blinking, having to wrap her mind around the reason for the limits she’d grown up training on the very edges of. “When you’re not as strong as your opponent, yield to deflect his force away.”

“And most people aren’t as strong as steel and concrete.” Alan nodded toward the ground. “Let’s go find some terrain.”

Morgan was not going to rub her hands together and chuckle evilly. No. But so far, the Plan looked good.

And running with her friends was fun.

Not to mention it looked like Alan had scouted every bit of interesting wall, brickwork, railing, and odd footing in the nearest three blocks. Uncle Malachy and Aunt Shionne had always said it was better to run than fight - and Alan had made sure he knew how and _where_ to run, even yanked into completely new territory.

She liked that. She liked that a lot.

Even more, she liked the patience and persistence that showed through, every time Alan walked - or spun, or bounced over - yet another obstacle Aladdin had never tackled before.

_Humans are bouncy. Use it._

_Breathe._

_Never land hard when you can land_ soft.

An hour later she and Alan were both waiting at the top of the community’s head-high brick wall, hidden from passing eyes in the shadows, as Aladdin took a deep breath and ran toward them.

_Don’t falter_ , Morgan willed him in that split-second before bare feet hit brick. _Don’t flinch, you can_ do _this_ -

Aladdin’s hands gripped the top of the wall, half-pulling himself up. Morgan tensed, but held still, watching Alan hold himself steady as a rock.

“Stupid... stubborn... urgh!” Panting, Aladdin’s feet found purchase on brick, and he hauled himself the rest of the way to the top. And wobbled there, breathing hard-

Alan moved in to steady him, just a little. “Edge over this way... there. You got it.”

Long blue hair smeared with brick dust, Aladdin flopped against his friend. “Oof. We didn’t do _that_ in Magnostadt.”

“Well, no,” Alan shrugged. “Magician’s school, right? That meant they wanted you to learn _magic_. If they taught you freerunning, you might not be so hot to learn flying.”

“Huh.” Aladdin raised his head, and stretched out an arm to invite her into the cuddle. “Think he’s right?”

“Could be,” Morgan nodded, shifting over to join the warmth. “Just listen to Uncle Malachy and Uncle Tiburon talking about fists and blades.”

“Wow.” Aladdin’s breath was slowing down now, as he took in the fact they were all still in one piece. “I didn’t know people who weren’t Fanalis could _do_ that. Well, except for Ja’far. And Tiburon. And Simon....” Even in the darkness, his blush was obvious. “I mean, I never thought _normal_ people could. Or magicians.”

“What, you think they started out leaping buildings in a single bound?” Alan shook his head. “Sure, some people are better at physical stuff than others. But anybody can get better, if they pay attention. And everybody’s got to start small... what?”

“Oh.” Blue eyes were wide. “I think I get it- um. Can we get down, first?”

“Good idea.” Morgan dropped gently to the ground inside the wall, and held out her arms in open invitation.

Laughing, Aladdin took it, dropping into her grasp without a moment’s thought.

Alan hit and rolled a moment later; a completely unnecessary flourish that still made Morgan smile, because now she could see where past memories and present had interwoven as one.

_Shoulder roll; a fighter’s, not a gymnast’s. His past knew the sword; his present knows how to move. Put those together, and no wonder Tiburon can’t make him lose his grip_.

And he was back on his feet again, one smooth flow of motion that left his hand in easy reach to draw, and would have left him still holding a blade if he’d already had it bared. Quick. Efficient. As subtle as a kitten kneading its claws, and just as pretty.

And... Alan was blinking at her, obviously confused why she was _staring_.

_I want to pet him_.

Aladdin tapped his fingers on her arm. “You could put me down now?”

Cheeks hot, Morgan tried not to drop him. Much.

“’Kay, we need to keep it down, and listen for noise,” Alan murmured as they threaded through the shadows back towards his house. “Don’t know everyone’s names around here yet, but the family over _that_ way,” he pointed left along the bluff overlooking the bay, “likes to throw pool parties. Mostly they keep it to a dull roar, but the second house over from them started throwing parties too, and the last time they were _both_ at it Mrs. Kiggins in the middle threatened to haul out the shotgun. I’m not sure of the range she’s got, but Miss Tanya says she has rubber slugs, not just rock salt, so she’s serious.” He nodded toward the Silversmiths’ house. “There’s two directions people don’t look for trouble. Down gets you soaked around here, so-”

“Up,” Morgan finished.

The roof was still warm, even if twilight had faded. Aladdin had let her carry him up, but roused himself enough to move so they could each steal one of Alan’s shoulders to lean on. “Think I finally figured it out,” Aladdin sighed, making himself comfortable. “You’re used to starting small. And- well, Djinn aren’t _small_.”

Morgan glanced up at Alan’s snort, and smiled at his dry look askance. “No,” she agreed. “It’s like you woke up Fanalis. Everything in the world is fragile.”

“It’s not - you two....” Alan trailed off, and gulped. “Melt a whole _peninsula?_ ”

“You won’t,” Aladdin said firmly. “It’s not just you, after all. You have to _ask_ Amon for his power. That gives you time to think.”

“Maybe it does now,” Alan said quietly. “But what if I do get better at it? Drop me off the side of a building, I roll without even thinking about it. What happens when I can do that with fire?”

Morgan tensed. Because it _wasn’t_ a stupid fear. An injured MacLea was a dangerous MacLea, there were reasons they avoided hospitals-

“The Djinn were created to _protect life_.” Aladdin’s gaze was deep as the night sky. “You and Amon aren’t that different. You protect people. I know you won’t burn anything that doesn’t need burning. I trust you.”

Morgan felt Alan go still, barely breathing.

_Because he knows it’s true_ , she realized. _It’s not just words. Aladdin took his hands, and took the wall, and he_ believed.

“I feel so silly,” Aladdin said, half to himself. “All this time I was trying to get you to trust me, when I should have done what I did with Morgan. I should have trusted _you_.”

Alan managed to look away. “I don’t make it that easy to trust me.”

“I know. But you’re the one who’s lived in this world, not me.” Aladdin didn’t pull away. “And you’re here, and you’re alive. Maybe you don’t have perfect answers, but you got this far. Only right here, right now, is _different_ from where you were. So take a look around, and see if you think you need the same answers.” He peeked around Alan at Morgan. “That’s part of fighting, right?”

“Situational awareness,” Morgan nodded. She didn’t force gold to meet her gaze; only kept her body loose as a cat lounging on a heat vent, ready to pounce on the nearest interesting motion. “The past is a map for the present, but the map is not the territory. To survive, you have to know when you’re not on the map.”

“Okay, I have to know.” Alan folded his hands over each other. “Does _every_ martial artist talk in weird metaphors?”

Morgan blinked, slow and amused. “Only the good ones.”

“Well, enough metaphors.” Nudging them off, Alan stood, and glanced at Morgan. “You think I can handle this.” He turned his gaze on Aladdin. “And you think if I mess up with fire, you can keep it from going crazy. Can you also keep it out of sight?”

“I know I can,” Aladdin said firmly, shaking his wand out of his sleeve. His lips moved silently, and air rippled, like tiny dew-diamonds refracting light. “What did you want to try?”

“Protecting,” Alan said softly. Closed his hands on steel, and drew a deep breath....

Around them, the air _sparked_.

The nape of Morgan’s neck prickled as she shoved closer to Aladdin and Alan. She was _not_ going to panic, Aladdin didn’t look worried, but sparks were now flames, swirling around them all in a fire-whirl, and even in the safe center she could feel heat shimmering, like claws pricking her skin. And everything that lived feared fire-

_No. Not everything_.

Alan’s scent was crisp and clean, untainted by fear. All it carried was determination - and the smoky heat of flames.

_We’re safe here_. Morgan planted her hands on rough shingles, dizzy even though she was already sitting down. _We’re in the middle of a firestorm - and we’re_ safe.

Aladdin had his wand loosely in his hand, looking at the swirls of flame with delight. “You have it _layered_. And moving!”

_Moving?_ Morgan blinked at the rolling curtains of fire-

_They’re spinning. Like a whirlwind. Like a swordsman rolling with impact_.

And like a spinning block, any blow would get shoved sideways. Even if one _did_ pierce through, the vortex would throw an enemy’s aim off.

Alan’s next breath seemed to draw fire in with it, flames condensing into a spinning whirl that vanished back into curved steel. He blinked, and looked both of them over. “Everybody okay?”

Morgan nodded, even if her hair still felt a little crispy at the edges. It’d been hot, but no worse. If anything came at them Alan thought needed that to block it, she’d take hot in a heartbeat.

“We’re fine!” Aladdin was actually bouncing, as if all the wall-jumping had been washed away by a shot of pure espresso. “Spinning fire. How did you think of that?”

“I saw pictures of fire-whirls, from the wildfires out West,” Alan said, almost hesitantly. “The scariest thing about fire is, if you’re in the middle of it, you still have to breathe. I don’t know what Amon does for me, but you say he’s my partner. Just because I can breathe doesn’t mean anyone _else_ can. But fire-whirls draw in their own air. So I thought if I did that, anyone inside the whirl with me would be okay.”

A good answer. A real one. But Morgan studied his tight shoulders, and knew it wasn’t everything. “And?”

“People have lost so much to the fires out there,” Alan said quietly. “It’s horrible, what’s happened to them. What they’ve lost. But when I look at the footage, of the flames curving up to the sky... the fires are so beautiful.”

Morgan nodded, grave and understanding. “What my family does, what Uncle Tiburon does - it’s for exercise, and for play, and for creating stories in films. But it’s also for killing.” She reached out and covered his hand with her own; feeling the warmth still rippling off Alan’s skin, as if his hands had been gloved in flames.

_Like they were with the dragon. And he still hasn’t seen it_.

He should. So he would know why she would catch him falling out of the sky, no matter what. But Aunt Shionne had said hunting shy boys was like sneaking up on a dove; being stealthy wasn’t enough. You had to make it look like your attention was actually on something _just_ past them. So that they would see your inching closer as something to be cautious about, but not dangerous.

And then you had to do something even harder. Wait for _them_ to decide they wanted to be caught.

“You want him to stay,” Aunt Shionne had said. “That means he was to _want_ to stay. For Alan, that’s going to be hard. He’s seen what happens when people don’t stay.

“But if you are patient, and you care, and he learns to trust himself - he will protect our pride forever.”

Given Aunt Shionne had caught Uncle Malachy, and the pair of them had finally brought Uncle Tiburon into the family, Morgan intended to take that advice to heart. So she held onto Alan’s hand, and moved in to lean against his side. “You make a nice hot water bottle.”

“You do!” Aladdin squeezed in from the other side, obviously comfortable.

“...We’re in _Florida_.”

“You haven’t been here in February,” Morgan observed. “Things freeze.”

“Huh.”

Not eloquent. But Morgan made sure she glanced over Alan’s shoulder to meet blue eyes before the magi could say _anything_. Because in that awkward, clumsy silence....

_He’s thinking about it. He’s imagining what it’s like, when winter clouds turn the waves green-gray, and ice limns the palm leaves in crystal shadows._

_He’s thinking about staying_.

Patience. Be still and gentle and _there_ , and her firebird would walk into her hands.

Resting her head on his shoulder, Morgan breathed in the scent of fire.

* * *

Phaenomena looked at the enchanted compass on her wrist, needle marked with a bit of ash from magic-seared mulch, and watched it bob and shift as a barely-teenage girl hurried a younger boy out of a brick-walled alley, scolding him in something that only vaguely sounded like Spanish. “That was some butterfly.”

_“I’m amazed it made it here in one piece,”_ Callimachus grumbled through her hands-free headset. _“That much power knitted together by a teenager... or something that gives a very good_ impression _of a teenager, when it isn’t flattening dragons. What have you found?”_

“Street rats,” Phaenomena summed up, pausing on the city sidewalk to sip a cup of coffee as she watched the pair meet up with a few other wary-eyed, dark-haired kids. “From way out of town.”

_“That makes no sense-”_

Phaenomena swayed aside before the passing Puerto Rican kid could try and pick her pocket. Honestly, did he really think that setup with just one distracter playing with an umbrella on her right was going to work on everybody? She was almost tempted to let him have her decoy wallet. Let him lose a few fingers. “And I just met a few of the locals.” _Oh, come on. Tell me he’s not trying again_.

And she didn’t have time for fun. Drat.

Stopping in a slosh of deliberately dropped coffee, she flung her hands up and back in dismay-

And if two fingers just _happened_ to hit the would-be pickpocket right at the vulnerable corner of the jaw, driving in more force than a punch? Well, accidents happened.

The teen dropped like a rock.

“Oh, no!” Phaenomena exclaimed with the rest of the startled crowd. “Someone call 911!”

Which scattered all his buddies in the area like rats. Kind of what she’d expected-

_Target scattered too? Interesting_.

Phaenomena took her time casually walking out of the crowd. The compass was still working, after all.

_“I take it you’ve managed to avoid official entanglements?”_

“So far,” Phaenomena acknowledged under her breath, studying the graceful if somewhat elderly church the compass had led her to. Stained-glass saints in windows above, plain glass at rock-throwing height; a bell-tower that even now chimed the hour. So why would a street kid be....

_Dark, not quite Spanish-speaking, and afraid of the cops. Aha_.

“We may have found interesting leverage,” Phaenomena reported, circling the church with her cell phone snapping pictures, like any stray tourist. Making sure she kept a smile on her face as she walked; there was one greasy-looking older man of the same general ethnicity as her target, and two guys in gray suits who read as official shadow-types. “I think someone’s providing sanctuary.”

Some quick typing, and the photos were sent as she kept on walking. The last thing she wanted was to draw attention from someone who might be farther in the gray areas of the law than she was.

_“Leverage indeed,”_ Callimachus said, distracted. _“One would think a lawyer’s son would know better than to place himself in legal jeopardy as an accomplice....”_

She knew that silence, and increased her pace; not running, just the fast walk of a tourist realizing she’d spent more time dawdling than she’d thought, and needed to hurry to make her bus. That silence was her Magister’s steel control of his own nerve, as he weighed up a situation that might be very dangerous indeed.

_“Your photos include someone I know,”_ the alchemist stated. _“Why would a maker of magical tools be here?”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given real-life fire whirls can reach over 2000º F, hot enough to reignite _already-burned ashes,_ yes, there’s still serious magic involved in staying alive in the middle. But part of Magi canon is that imagery is important in making magic work. And given Heat Magic’s closest affinity is Wind.... Picture cool air whirling in, and it should happen. 
> 
> Bit from a Marvel comic, Death to Jean Grey about the Phoenix Force: “It came to you Jean--as it will in time to your children-- because like the sword Excalibur was to King Arthur...It is yours by right.”


	14. The Curious Incident of the Blog in the Night-Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> RL issues in here, people. I took my best stab at what I thought characters' reactions and actions would be with it. I suspect this chapter's going to get flames anyway. Also, the bibliography? Not for the faint of heart. Or stomach. Fair warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bibliography in this was too long to fit in the end notes, so it's included with the main chapter.

_It’s finally Friday_. Alan leaned against the wall of Malachy’s dojo, and tried not to fidget. _Three-day weekend. I should be collapsed in an exhausted heap somewhere, sorting out homework or playing video games_.

Except he’d already sorted out his homework and he wasn’t at all interested in video games. Not with Simon leaning against the wall with him, watching Morgan and Malachy toss students gently around and pretend they weren’t at all worried about what might be happening in Tiburon’s salle with two magicians about to cast a very tricky past life memory spell next door. Fingers tapping against the wall as _Simon_ tried not to fidget.

_Joy_.

It was weird to see a grownup quietly terrified. Even weirder to feel utterly, absolutely sympathetic. He might have been tossed into Tiburon’s class by Principal Cavins’ manic whim, but it was... well, interesting. If sometimes terrifying. Like freerunning - and he’d never had a formal class where he could trust the instructor as much as he trusted traceurs. It’d be kind of nice if Tiburon’s brains stayed unscrambled, just for the novelty....

Alan took a deep breath, and gingerly poked at the sore spots in his heart. _I trust him. I didn’t think I could trust_ anybody _down here. But when Tiburon comes at me with steel - I trust him. I don’t want that to change_.

And if he felt that way, what must Simon feel like?

_But it’s his life. His choice_.

And if Ja’far had looked stoically blank, and Aladdin nervously happy, Tiburon - the swordsman had looked _excited_.

_He wants magic_ , Alan thought. _Even just the memory of it. He wants that wonder_.

Two days ago that would have made him shudder. Now... now he had to think.

_Amon took a chance, coming to me. As long as he wasn’t bound to a Vessel - we were both hanging by a thread_.

And Aladdin said the Djinn were meant to _protect life_. If he believed Aladdin, and he _did_ believe Aladdin... then Amon must have thought any other plan would have dumped them into an even worse hell-bound handbasket.

_If he hadn’t been there_.... Alan had to swallow hard. _Phaenomena would have killed me_.

He’d been in bad fights before, but never _lethal_ ones. The martial artist-

_She’d have taken me apart before I knew I was in over my head. If Amon hadn’t - stirred things up - if I hadn’t been_ fighting _instead of thinking...._

All things considered, the four of them were alive and still breathing. At least, if Djinn breathed. And that - that was _not_ a bad week. Even if he still wanted to go “augh!” and hide under a pillow at random moments.

_Please let Tiburon be okay_. Alan glanced at a soft chime of earrings, as Simon tried not to fidget. _For all of us_.

Because as much as he sometimes wanted to watch the principal’s every move like a mongoose watching a cobra, so far Simon had been good as his word. They’d had that rematch on stage. This time Alan had lasted _two_ minutes.

_He didn’t fall for the disarm this time. Ouch_.

“You know, I haven’t seen so many grumpy football players in my school since the last Hancock-Bayville game went into overtime,” Simon observed. “You’d think, given how careful Coach Grant is to pound through their heads that _footwork is important_ , they’d have more sense than to try and fling themselves off obstacles without training.”

Alan sighed.

“Oh, it’s their own fault,” Simon observed, earrings glinting bright as his smile. “They should have read the brochure, too. Sprained ankles are getting off lightly.” Purple hair rustled against the wall, as he looked up to scan the ceiling. For at least the fifth time.

“They’ll be fine,” Alan said firmly. “Aladdin knows what he’s doing.”

“ _Nobody_ knows what they’re doing with this spell.” Simon brought his head back down with a sigh. “At least Ja’far’s alive to cast it. Thank you.”

Alan started. “Huh?”

“You have to teach me that chain-breaking manipulation....” Simon gave him a speculative look. “You do know those chains kill magicians?”

_And Fanalis_. “Morgan told me,” Alan said quietly. “So we had to break them. As quick as we could. I just wish we could have broken more, before....” He tried not to flinch. Really.

“Dragon barbeques do take precedence over chains that haven’t quite killed people yet,” Simon said dryly. “You broke out the people who most needed to be broken free. Well done.”

“I was trying for medium rare,” Alan shrugged. “You know, only a _little_ scorched on the outside....” Words failed him, in the face of dark eyes.

“The words you’re looking for,” Simon said, very quietly, “are, ‘you’re welcome’. I grant, from what I’ve heard, you haven’t had much chance to use them.”

“...I would have done it for anybody,” Alan said awkwardly. “I’ve been hit by those things. It feels like dying. Cold, and empty, and... nobody should have to feel like that.”

Simon took a slow breath, and settled more firmly against the wall. “Do you want to talk about your mother?”

Damn. Damn, how could Simon just pick that out of the air? Ever since the cops had sat down with him about the accident the whole scenario had just... played out in his head, over and over. Tires screeching and glass crashing and _impact_ -

“Easy there.” Simon’s hand was on his shoulder, brows drawn down and intent. “Sorry. I should have known it was too soon.”

“Nothing feels real, sometimes.” Alan swallowed, rubbing his knuckles across his forehead. “Mom was... she was a rock. Solid. No matter what happened. She’d find a way to deal with it. Or skate out of it. Even when scary cop guys had me in handcuffs, years back, I knew - I _knew_ \- somehow it’d be okay.” He had to force himself to take a breath. “Nothing’s been okay since.”

“And the more you’re sure you can depend on people here, the worse it feels,” Simon summed up. “Because you barely lived through the last time. What would be left of you if it happened twice?”

Alan twitched. “That’s-”

“Don’t you dare say that’s selfish. That’s human.” Simon leaned back against the wall. “If I lost one of my people, I think I’d do something drastic. So far you haven’t blown up city hall, set police headquarters on fire, or strangled any of your supposedly well-meaning relatives. So in my opinion, you’ve been quite reasonably restrained.”

Alan tried not to turn red. Because he hadn’t been that calm and... he knew what someone trying to distract himself looked like. “It’ll be okay. Aladdin never pushed anything to where it hurt. He won’t do it now, either.”

“Good,” Simon said firmly. “Because if anything goes wrong in there - well, for all his assassin training, there’s one weakness Ja’far won’t admit he still has.”

Alan raised a curious brow, not sure he wanted to know.

Simon leaned closer, barely breathing the words. “He’s _ticklish_.”

* * *

Tiburon sat cross-legged on the salle floor, eyeing the scented candles forming three points of a triangle around him, the crystal bowl of water in front of him, and the pale green crystal node in his hand. “This looks oddly simple.”

“There are two main ways my clan does ritual spells,” Ja’far acknowledged, sitting by one of the other candles with a bit of olive-green stone in odd metallic gray matrix; a tektite, he’d said. “One way is to make something hideously complex, where every component of the recipe corresponds to another added element of the spell. That takes more time, both in casting and preparation, because you have to be very clear on what associations you want each component to resonate with; and the more components you have, the more chances there are for negative interactions.” He settled the sleeves of his robe a hair more into alignment. “I prefer to use a few components that are as specific to the overall result as possible, and let them each wreak havoc. It takes more overall force, but it’s faster.” His lips twitched. “A knife, instead of a chemical cocktail.”

Tiburon smirked at that one. Didn’t matter if what Ja’far was outlining sounded like the flakiest Californian New Age ridiculousness. The man he knew would _always_ go for the kill-shot.

Ja’far rubbed fingers over his rock. “My clan would often wait for a meteor shower, to tie their magic to space and time... this will do instead. Moldavite helps you step out of old patterns and bad habits; eucalyptus cleanses and helps prevent negative energy from getting a hold on your mind.” He glanced at Aladdin, sitting by the third candle with a warm orange-red translucence cupped in his hands. “Amber holds past lives and light; wisteria opens the door between the conscious mind and ancient memories.”

Tiburon hefted his pale green rocks. “And this?”

“Apophyllite,” Ja’far supplied. “Spiritual connection. Walking through fires. You’ll need both of those. And the lotus has centuries of tradition in being used to integrate past lives with the present. Three scents for three stones. And when you include those,” he tilted his head, indicating candles, and water, “we also have the traditional elements of air, water, earth and fire.”

“Though what this spell really uses is Life and Light Magic,” Aladdin pointed out. “But Ja’far says people are used to those four elements as being linked to the body, so it’s good to get those in.”

“Makes sense,” Tiburon said, half to himself. _Oh boy. Magic makes sense. Well, suck it up; that’s the world you want to live in. Dragons, remember? And fighting. And fun_.

“Last chance to back out of this,” Ja’far said, dead serious.

And damned if Tiburon hadn’t considered that, over the past few days. But all the reasons he’d thought of still held. His friends needed help he could give them. And he trusted Ja’far. “It’ll be fine,” Tiburon said quietly. “You tried out part of this yesterday, right? And you’re still your own charming self.”

Aladdin grinned at that. “Though we did figure out a few tweaks. But we can put those right into your spell, instead of adding them on later like we did with Ja’far’s.”

“Tweaks?” Tiburon said, almost suspicious. This was Ja’far, and he did trust Aladdin too, but....  

“Just making sure the rukh only affect physical elements we don’t mind being affected.” Gray eyes might have had a sparkle of mischief. “I might like the poison resistance, but I’m rather happy not being _quite_ so short.”

Tiburon blinked, trying to picture a tinier, totally white-haired Ja’far. Somehow that image was _even scarier_.

_Tiny dandelion-puff in green and gold. Cute, delicate, floats on the wind... and tenacious as hell. Do not cross if you_ value your life.

The life mage sighed, and deliberately straightened. “All right. Close your eyes, and take a deep breath....”

It was like falling through stars.

_Night. And... so far to go_....

A hand gripped his in the darkness.

_Hey. It’s been a while_.

He opened his eyes, staring into brighter green. _You-?_

A devilish smile, and a wink, light glinting off a golden ear-chain. _You could say that. Or you_ could _say “me”. We’re not two people, you know. It’s just... been a while_.

_Ja’far was worried-_

_Ja’far always worries. Mind you, Sinbad_ , his other chuckled. _Our little assassin’s got reason to worry. Put that together with Aladdin, and... well, Alibaba! Our poor little fire-mouse just attracts trouble. And did I say that’s an awesome nickname? Morgiana is so sweet this time around. Oh, she was sweet before, but - she was still getting over Jamil, and losing everyone when she was little, and everything. It’s cute, seeing her know what she wants and willing to go for it! Like a deadly little Siberian tiger cub, aww_.... Another wicked grin. _And we get the chance to train Alibaba up_ right _this time. He’s going to be a holy terror_.

He had to grin right back. Because that was dancing on an edge that had nothing to do with blood and monsters; the subtle, soft edges of mind and spirit. Hammering his student’s will into a blade that would cut through any obstacle, grinding away hate and self-doubt, yet still keeping the temper of patience and compassion....

Oh yes. He wanted that. As much as he’d ever wanted to master a blade. To have a student who could carry his sword-skills and ethics forward - he _wanted_ that.

_You’ll do a better job than I would have_ , his past self reflected. _I was... well, we’d been fighting Al-Thamen for years, by the time I met Alibaba. It wore on all of us. Sinbad drank too much, Ja’far buried himself in paperwork and bodies, and I... all I wanted was to live in the moment, because I didn’t have the courage to ask for what I really wanted. I didn’t take Alibaba’s training as seriously as I should have_. Green eyes cut at him. _Be_ better _than I was. A better teacher. A better master. A better friend_.

_Yamraiha_ , Tiburon whispered.

_...Yeah. I was an idiot_. Bright green looked away, then back. _Don’t you dare make that mistake! If you find her, you tell her - if you have to carry her off and kidnap her to do it!_

_Um. Won’t she kind of boil us for that?_

_Live through boiling, or spend the rest of your life regretting not catching her?_ A chuckle. _Besides. Ja’far’s a Life mage, this time around. He’d put us back together just so he could snicker at watching the Utter Fail of trying to be cool, calm, and debonair around that infuriating, awesome woman. And so he could help_ Simon _snicker at us._

_...Point_. Tiburon took a breath of stars and darkness. _So how do we do this?_

_First_.... Dark fingers caught his, rough with familiar callus. _Hang on. And remember: there_ is _no “we”. There’s just-_

_Who I was-_

_Who I am-_

_Me_.

* * *

His salle looked so different.

Tiburon blinked, and breathed in the sweet scent of lotus, feeling it snap the past into place like long-lost puzzle pieces. Days of tropical sunlight, nights of feasting and frantic battle-plans; all the joys and sorrows of an exiled prince who’d made a new home in Sindria, but could never quite stop missing the realm of his birth.

_And I told Alan I didn’t believe in past lives_. Tiburon set the mass of green crystals in his hand down on the floor with the still-burning candles, then looked up at Aladdin’s relief and Ja’far’s too-still worry. “So. Is that it?”

... _Argh_.

“I’m - trying,” he was, he was focused on the words, they wouldn’t come, “but I can’t get English to come out-”

“It’s okay.” Aladdin’s smile was brighter than his candle, as he stood and crossed the room. “The spell’s done, but the rukh hasn’t finished everything yet. I can see some Life Magic still working... right here?” His hand touched the side of Tiburon’s head.

_“I think that’s the language center,”_ Ja’far observed, face finally twitching out of that still mask. _“I suppose that makes sense. If you bring back the skills and memory from back then, you have to reshape part of the neurons to hold onto it.”_

Tiburon blinked, thinking that over. “No wonder it hit you so hard!”

_“Eh?”_

He had to roll his eyes. “Think about it. Thirteen? Most people, that might be a kid. You’d been a Sham Lash assassin for over _seven years_. It must have been like a bomb going off in your head.” A chill went down his spine; he stood to shake it off. “Damn, they’re so lucky you _were_ thirteen. Sinbad and Rurumu had had two years to teach you how _not_ to kill people- Oof!”

For a skinny teenage magician, Aladdin definitely had a solid hug.

“Hey.” Tiburon brought his hand up to grip long strands of blue, tickling the magi with his own braid. “Missed you, too.”

Aladdin giggled, and grabbed his hair back, looking up with oddly sober hope. “So, what’s it like?”

Huh. Good question. “Odd,” Tiburon admitted, stalling while he tried to pin it down. “Close, and separate, at the same time. It’s like... if Sharrkan had been me while I was in university, and I’m me _now_.” He had to pause, taking that in. “And if I’d been Sharrkan in university, there’d have been rather a lot of scattered bodies by the time all was said and done. I truly do despise ivory tower types.”

Though he did have to tease Ja’far about unnecessarily ominous warnings. There was absolutely nothing wrong with muscle shirts-

_Short shirts. Shirts that show off your navel in the most indecent, improper way_....

Tiburon buried his face in his hands, and glared at Ja’far from between spread fingers. “You could have warned me about Heliohapt _nudity taboos!_ ”

Ja’far folded his hands in his sleeves, looking angelic as a black-ops demon who’d just infiltrated heaven. “Does that mean I can’t take you on a beach full of bikinis?”

“Evil,” Tiburon said bluntly. “Pure, unabashed evil.”

Aladdin patted him on the arm, looking glumly sympathetic. “I know. Alan won’t take me out to taverns with pretty girls, either.” He brightened. “But maybe you might?”

Tiburon had to drop his hands at that, chuckling. “I _might_. We’ll have to be a little careful, though, Simon won’t want me corrupting a minor....”

_Simon. “Uncle Sinbad.” Simon is_ Sinbad. _Lord of Sindria. Our king._

_Oh god_.

Tiburon rubbed at the hairs standing up on the back of his neck. “...We can’t use this spell on Simon.”

“We can’t?” Aladdin stared wide-eyed up at him.

“No, we can’t,” Tiburon said firmly. Aladdin sounded innocent. Almost looked innocent. But there was no way the magi he’d known ages past was that naive. “Use this spell on Simon and our poor innocent maniac of an actor-principal would meet Sinbad the Dungeon Conqueror in his own head and the _world would explode_.”

“Godzilla Threshold,” Ja’far nodded. “I’ve already warned him.”

“You’re leaving it that low?” Tiburon let an eyebrow arch at the too-trusting magician. “We have _dungeons_ cropping up. We’ve already had one dragon get out of the tower - and I’m not sure anyone saw it go _back_. All we need is one dungeon portal to go a little screwy, and the odds of giant sea monsters showing up go from late-night comedy skit to _breaking news_....” He stared at Ja’far. “What do you mean, you warned him? He knows?”

A pale, smug smile. “He figured it out the other night.”

“Damn!” Tiburon swore, pure and heartfelt. “I wanted to see his face.”

“I did,” Ja’far said gravely. And smirked. “The word you’re looking for is _epic_.”

He could picture it. Simon Cavins, for once caught flat-footed as any amateur with stage fright. “Oh well. At least we won’t have to dance around history so much.” Tiburon narrowed his eyes at the ex-assassin. “Still. Sea monsters.”

“All too likely.” Ja’far’s faint smile would have had said monsters running for cover. “But by then the world should have enough other Vessel Users and magicians that the planet won’t explode. Just twitch.”

The planet _twitching_ didn’t sound much safer. Not when Tiburon remembered what a really determined Metal Vessel User could _do_ -

_Eeep_.

Reaching out, he gripped Aladdin by the shoulder. “Magi can put dungeons down as well as call them up, right? If Zepar ever shows up-”

“Make sure Simon never, ever gets in there.” Aladdin was nodding fiercely, eyes just a little wide. “I know!”

Still holding on, Tiburon eyed the magi. “I was thinking of Simon. What were you thinking of?”

“Alibaba’s face when he found out how Sinbad was using Kougyoku to spy on the Kou Empire,” Aladdin said seriously. “And Alibaba couldn’t even tell her without letting her know she was being controlled by somebody else, and she _couldn’t stop it_. That was awful.”

Ja’far winced. “You’re right. Better to make sure that temptation is far, far away from anyone’s hands. Simon’s persuasive enough as it is.”

“Isn’t that the truth.” Tiburon grinned. “I bet he’s driving Malachy crazy right now, trying to not fidget while he waits to see if you two made my head explode.” He glanced at Aladdin. “Not to mention, I want to get a _proper_ look at my student. Back then, I didn’t get to grab him until he was eighteen. This time he hasn’t hit his full growth yet, and that makes a difference.” _Not to mention last time he also had a full three years of formal sword-training and experience surviving on the streets_ -

And he could have kicked himself, because now he _knew_ all the pieces fit; from the flinching inside school walls to the nerves of steel anywhere else.

_Where his elders made the rules, Alan could never win. Where their rules didn’t apply - look out, world_.

Which was frighteningly like the stories he’d heard of a younger Sinbad. Meaning the world now had _two_ of them, and without Zepar and half-Falling into Depravity and Al-Thamen breathing down everyone’s necks, they were likely to be on the _same side_.

... _This is going to be_ awesome.

* * *

Alan leaned back in his bedroom chair, took a long, deep breath, and let it out in pure relief. “So everybody came out in one piece.” He glanced toward the bed, where Aladdin was poking through his own homework, and gave his friend a thumbs-up. “Nice work.”

“You think so?” Aladdin shrugged, cheeks a little pink. “It’s Ja’far’s clan spell. I helped redesign it, a little. Mostly I just made sure we had enough magoi to do it right.”

“If redesigning a spell’s anything like editing an article, that’s not little,” Alan said plainly. “I would’ve been sweating bullets. When you take a jump you’re not sure of, you’re just risking your own neck. Magical brain surgery? Wow.”

And _wow_ was definitely the word. That look in Tiburon’s eyes when they’d all crowded in to make sure he was still breathing... happy to see them all. Delighted to see Malachy. But when he’d looked at Simon?

“I’ve seen people look like that, a few times,” Alan said quietly, bringing up his blog to check for the night. “A firefighter pulling his partner out of a burning highrise. Cops checking buddies for bullet holes. He thought... I don’t know. That Simon was....” Not dead, that wasn’t right. “That everything went wrong, and all he could have done was pick up the pieces. What _happened_ back then?”

“Awful things.” Aladdin let the history book thump onto the bed. “I wish I’d been able to help sooner. Then, and now.”

Alan glanced away from his laptop, catching that faint tone of defeat. “Don’t do that. You’re here now. You’re helping _now_. That’s all anybody can do. _Coulda-shoulda-woulda_ s will tear you apart.”

_Hypocrite. Like you can think about that day and not wish you’d done something, anything different_.

His mother had crashed, reasons unknown. Even if he’d been there, even if by some miracle he’d been left in more or less one piece by that damn sign-

_She lost too much blood. You read the report; all the pieces they let you get at, anyway. She would have been gone in less than a minute. So much blood_....

Deliberately, Alan turned his mind to mountains, and feathered snakes, and the latest snippet of non-magical article on the persistence of local reporters he was posting on this blog.

_On the one hand, Oswald’s doing her job. Tower appears, people ought to want to know why_ , Alan thought, skimming comments people had left on his last post in case one of them really needed a reply. _On the other - Baal’s not on her property. She’s got no right to sneak in where she’s not welcome_ -

RoseRedMary’s latest comment, two up from the last on his post. ‘ _Huh, didn’t know reporters could get thrown out of places. Neat!’_

Short. Interested. To the point.

_No sig-line_.

Ice. He’d been drenched in pure _ice_.

Aladdin’s feet hit the floor. “What’s wrong?”

_Oh god. Oh god, please let this just be a posting slip-up_.... “Maybe nothing,” Alan said tightly, picking up the house landline. He wished he had his own phone, but that hadn’t made it down here either. And using the one his father had given him- no. Not for this. “Maybe a lot.”

_Pick up. Please pick up_.

_“Star of the Sea Charity.”_

“Sister Thomasina,” Alan said in a rush. “How’s Maria doing?”

_“Who is this?”_

Alan started, taken aback. He’d only been in Florida a few weeks. His voice couldn’t sound _that_ different-

_You wake up from nightmares speaking a language this world hasn’t heard in millennia. Yes, it could_.

“It’s Alan,” he got out. “Is she okay? I’ve... got a bad feeling.” Because the _no sig-line_ was Maria’s last-ditch distress call; the one he and Maria and his mother had agreed on if _everything_ went wrong. Illegal aliens were just that; _illegal_ , vulnerable to anyone who threatened to turn them in. And even if Sister Thomasina and her church meant well, meant to stand as protectors instead of exploiters....

Sometimes having that kind of power over people was too much to resist.

_“Alan?”_ A swift intake of breath. _“Don’t scare me like that. I’m not as young as I used to be.”_

From what he’d heard, Sister Thomasina had been claiming that for at least the last ten years. Even though she ran half-marathons whenever Church duties allowed.

_“There was someone from the government here the other day looking for you,”_ the Sister went on. _“I told him I don’t know where you are. I hope you’re safe?”_

Someone from the government? Oh great; probably more guys cranky over Freedom of Information requests. “My principal likes to cackle maniacally. Other than that, fine,” Alan said firmly. _I’m not bleeding, magoi-drained, or on fire, so - yeah. Fine_. “How’s Maria?”

_“...I haven’t seen her today.”_

Not good. Not good at all. Alan beckoned Aladdin over so he could listen in, too. “When’s the last time you saw her? Who was she with? Has Alesandro said anything? Lupe? Benita? Tobal?”

_“I was hoping you’d heard something.”_ A breath. _“Though you know as well as I do she doesn’t keep a regular schedule.”_

“No, she doesn’t,” Alan admitted. “But she’s not an idiot, either. She always lets _somebody_ know where she’s going.” _Calm, keep calm, she’s not going to want to do this_. “Sister, I think you should call the cops.”

_“Alan Ryans, you know as well as I do-”_

“She’s in trouble! She’s a kid!” He was _not_ going to yell into the phone. “Call in an anonymous report. Do something!”

_“I will not expose dozens of children to ICE because you have a_ bad feeling, _Alan.”_ There was steel in her tone. _“You know Maria’s dropped out of sight before.”_

_But she never sent up the distress call before,_ Alan thought, fingers clenching on the edge of his desk. _She called me brother, and she’s supposed to be_ safe with you.

_And she’s not_.

Alan made his fingers let go of the desk, trying to lock down the sick whirl of fear and anger inside. “Sister, she _needs_ you.”

_“We can’t risk a whole flock for one lost lamb.”_ The words were quiet. Decided. _“I’m sorry, Alan. Your mother never understood, either. I’ll do what I can, but as a Sister I must hold fast to_ all _of my vows.”_

_Click_.

“Poverty, chastity, obedience- _damn it!_ ” Hands shaking, Alan tried not to slam the phone back into the base. “Whatever happened to leaving the ninety-nine in the wilderness and going after the one? That’s what shepherds are _supposed to do!_ ”

“So... we’re not talking about sheep, are we?” Aladdin’s gaze was grave. “Maria’s in trouble? And this sister you know won’t call for help? Why?”

“Because her Order said not to,” Alan said sourly. “Or her confessor did, close to the same thing....” He took a deep breath, trying to arrange the whole incredible _mess_ into some kind of logical order. “Okay. If the cops get dragged into this? If they find Maria, they’ll help her, but then she’ll be deported out of the country. Unless she can prove she could be killed if she went back to Guatemala. She _might_ be able to do that, if she’s willing to admit people back in her village think she’s from a family of witches.”

“And cops are like city guards, which means if they’re not good they won’t do anything without a bribe, and if they _are_ good they’re going to ask questions to find her,” Aladdin said thoughtfully. “Lots of questions. They’d find out Sister Thomasina’s hiding a _lot_ of people. And she’d end up in front of the judges.”

“Not just her. Plenty of people in the Church up there are involved,” Alan stated. “Happens all over the country... I know Sister Thomasina. She’d go to jail in a heartbeat if it was just her. But she’s trying to protect the other kids.” He dug his fingers into his hair, trying not to start crying from pure frustrated rage. “And damn it, _that’s wrong!_ ”

Aladdin’s fingers gripped his shoulder. “Tell me.”

_Keep it together_. “When I told Mom about Maria, when we found out there were more kids - Mom _knew_ we’d have to blow the Church’s cover. One way or another.”

He felt more than saw Aladdin’s jaw drop. “What? But....” The magi shook his head, and bit his lip. “I know you. You wouldn’t hurt people without a good reason. But _why?_ ”

“Because of things like this!” Alan tried to keep it to a low hiss; the last thing they needed was anyone else getting mixed up in this. “Because _anything_ could be happening to Maria, anything at all, and the people who _say_ they’re protecting her _won’t stop it!_ ‘Oh, if we let this one go, at least we can keep the others safe’. How many kids will they let get hurt, because they won’t call the cops? Get _beaten_ , get raped, get-” _Please not dead. She had to be alive to post that message, please...._

“Oh.” Aladdin had to lean on his desk, pale. _“Oh.”_

Alan swallowed hard. “Mom was trying to dig up everything she could to get them refugee status. We wanted to help the kids, because it _wasn’t their fault_. But they were still breaking the law just being here, and in the long run that... that doesn’t help _anybody_.” _Breathe. Think it through_. “As long as there’s no consequences to hiding people like Maria, then the Church doesn’t have to face the real problem. The system in Guatemala, in dozens of countries - it’s _broken_. It needs people to stand up and make it better. Until that happens all you’re doing by moving people is just spreading more misery around. And then the Church makes it _worse_ by saying ‘just get up here, and we’ll hide you.’ Do you have any idea what happens to these kids getting here? The ones that _live_ to get here? It’s _horrible_.”

“And anything that’s horrible, and still happening....” Blue brows drew down, turning Aladdin’s friendly face uncannily grim. “Someone’s making a lot of money, aren’t they?”

“Most people call them _coyotes_.” Alan tried not to snarl the word. “They take money to smuggle people. They take... a lot of other things too. Especially from women. _Especially_ from girls.”

Aladdin flinched. “You mean - it’s like slavery.”

“It _is_ slavery,” Alan bit out. “ _Human trafficking_. That’s a coat of whitewash on what happens. Sometimes they bring people over the border and leave them. Sometimes they let them die in the desert. Sometimes they bring girls here promising they’re going to be maids in rich households. Only they get into the States, and find out the only _services_ they’re going to be giving are the kind any guy should be _arrested_ for-!” He took a shaky breath, feeling that odd nudge of flames at the back of his mind. _Can’t burn anything, Amon. Not yet_. “Mom was after the coyotes. Who they were. Where they were. Who the hell was helping them get fake papers. She _wanted_ them.”

_And then she died. God, what a stupid accident_.

“And Maria got away from them,” Aladdin said softly. “After... what happened to her?”

“I never asked,” Alan said flatly. “When she tried to think about where she got away from, she’d just _shake_.” He swallowed. “But she trusted me. She trusted my mom. Trusted us enough to say, _okay, I believe you, I’ll protect myself even from the church Fathers_.”

“Even from....” Aladdin’s mouth opened, then closed, as he obviously rearranged his thoughts. “Because someone’s working with the coyotes. And you don’t know who.”

Wordless, Alan nodded.

Aladdin frowned, still thinking. “Are you going to call the cops?”

“I should,” Alan whispered. “Damn it, I should, coyotes _murder_ people, when they catch someone who got away they drag them in front of the next bunch and make an _example_ of them - throats slit, strangled while someone’s watching, set on _fire_....”

_In. Out. Focus_.

“But what could I tell them?” Alan shook his head, trying not to slump in his chair. “I know a girl’s in deep, deep trouble because she left four words off a blog post? A street rat. A runaway. An _illegal_. The all-clear we set up - someone’s _letting her use a computer_. But they think they’ve got her so scared she won’t call for help.”

“And you think there’s only one thing that could scare her that much.” Aladdin nodded once, decided. “How do we get there?”

“Problem is how to get there fast,” Alan muttered under his breath. “This is an abduction, don’t know why they want her alive for now but every hour ups the chances they’ll decide what they’re getting out of her’s not worth leaving a live witness... train would take a few days, bus almost as bad, there’s no way we can get on a plane, I can’t get tickets without a credit card-”

_I’m an idiot_.

He dropped his head to thump against a fist, because obviously he needed to restart his brain. “We don’t need tickets. We need to _get on the plane_....” _Wait a minute_. “We?”

Aladdin smiled.

* * *

A/N: I needed some non-magical bad guys for this story. Well, I found them. Hoo boy, did I ever.... *Shudders*

Yes, certain members of the Catholic Church in the U.S. (as well as other groups) take active measures to hide, transport, and otherwise assist illegal aliens. In some places this is more organized than others. People may have disagreements on the morality of helping individuals; I don’t know who could see someone hurting in front of them and _not_ help. But definitions of what constitutes proper help _in the long term_ \- that, people have _big_ arguments about.

Helping people by breaking the law costs a whole society. It’s the ultimate slippery slope. Civilization isn’t just a culture or a set of laws; it’s a _consensus_. A tacit agreement that the vast majority of people will abide by the law, most of the time, and that lawbreakers stand a very good chance of being caught and punished. As long as people trust in that, then a nation works. But the more small laws get broken, the more widespread lawbreaking becomes, the less everyone can trust that consensus. Without that trust, things fall apart. Literally fall apart; try running electrical utilities when everyone’s stealing electricity, for example. It _doesn’t work_.

As for using the term _illegal aliens_ as opposed to _undocumented immigrants_ , consider this:

By that reasoning, an identity thief who drains someone’s life savings is an _undocumented account holder_.

A bald eagle poacher is an _undocumented wildlife harvester_.

A shoplifter who walks off with thousands of dollars worth of inventory is an _undocumented customer_.

In each of these cases, including crossing the border illegally, the perpetrator is taking something that does not legally belong to them. Call it whatever you like, that is still a crime. And if you don’t believe me, look up Mexico’s laws on illegal border entry and what they do to illegal aliens. It’s not pretty.

And yes, everything Alan mentions coyotes doing - _that is what they do_. They are _not_ “people nobly helping others to a new life”. They are vicious, ruthless criminals, who generally don’t think much of leaving bodies scattered in ditches behind them. After all, there’s always more where those poor bastards came from.

I’m going to give a sample of articles and books below. Anyone who wants to do more research, feel free. I will warn you the subject is stomach-churning. And anyone who thinks there are easy answers ought to be laughed out of town.

Some books of interest:

_Showdown in the Sonoran Desert: religion, law and the immigration controversy_ by Ananda Rose.

_Scorpions for Breakfast_ by Jan Brewer.

Note, this one has some interesting bits on Ecuador setting up a consulate in Arizona specifically to help Ecuadoran citizens illegally in the U.S. continue breaking the law. I think the technical term for this is _chutzpah_.

_State of emergency: the third world invasion and conquest of America_ , by Patrick J. Buchanan.

_Whatever it takes: Illegal immigration, border security, and the war on terror_ by J.D. Hayworth and Joseph J. Eule.

This one has some interesting info on the crime syndicates involved in fraudulent documents obtained by illegal aliens. Including people caught at various DMVs selling driver’s licenses. I think we can all agree the DMV _needs no help_ to be more Evil.

Some articles of interest:

<https://www.washingtonpost.com/national/obama-administration-placed-children-with-human-traffickers-report-says/2016/01/28/39465050-c542-11e5-9693-933a4d31bcc8_story.html>

<http://bigstory.ap.org/article/cc07b82ec58145cca37d6ff952f334c1/ap-investigation-feds-failures-imperil-migrant-children>

<http://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2010/may/3/mexicos-illegals-laws-tougher-than-arizonas/?page=all>

<http://dailycaller.com/2015/07/03/heres-one-rape-culture-the-media-wants-to-be-fake/>

<http://www.npr.org/2012/04/19/150973748/inside-the-hidden-world-of-immigrant-smuggling>

<http://pjmedia.com/tatler/2013/12/18/rape-tree-found-near-texas-mexico-border/>

<http://blog.chron.com/txpotomac/2009/03/rape-victims-in-ice-detention-blocked-from-abortion-services/>

<http://www.texasobserver.org/2963-access-denied/>

<http://www.usatoday.com/story/opinion/2015/08/26/open-borders-europe-migrants-column/32333153/>

<http://www.nytimes.com/2015/08/23/world/europe/thalys-train-attack-france-moroccan-suspect.html>

<http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/slovakia/11811998/Slovakia-refuses-to-accept-Muslim-migrants.html>

<http://news.yahoo.com/eurotunnel-37-000-migrant-crossing-attempts-blocked-090258440.html>

<http://www.baltimoresun.com/news/opinion/editorial/bs-ed-refugees-20150820-story.html>


	15. On a Jet Plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tickets? We don't need no tickets.... 
> 
> AKA, Richard gets a lesson in Alibaba plans. You have to almost feel sorry for the guy. Almost.

_Tiburon’s fine_ , Ja’far thought sleepily, nestled under a blanket on Simon’s couch despite his principal’s wistful comments about not waking up with a sore back. He wanted peace and quiet and the surety that if he stabbed something it would only be cloth and upholstery. _Tiburon’s fine, Malachy and Shionne can handle him if he wakes up in the middle of the night because it’s not Sindria, everyone’s home and safe. We’re going to be alright_.

He’d hoped so. He’d been _almost_ sure. After all, he knew that waking past lives worked, and he and Aladdin had been able to test the buffering part - on himself, of course, there wasn’t any other way to get truly informed consent-

_Starlight, and endless night, and... the sense of_ someone else.

He’d whirled in that place-that-wasn’t, and stiffened. Charcoal-gray eyes, a scattering of too-innocent freckles, hair white and poisonous as milkweed fluff. The quiet, weighing assessment of a child grown to man who’d always known his first priority was to have a plan to kill everyone he met.

Zmiinyi had been raised as such a _nice_ boy.

_But I never was, was I?_

Pale lips twitched, and a small but deadly fist knocked him in the shoulder. Like Sharrkan would have. Like Masrur would have - only his fist would have been silk-gentle, so the lucky victim wouldn’t be half-staggered.

_What are you staring at?_ It’d almost been a laugh. _You already know how much second chances are worth. And you’re looking after our people with everything we have. Don’t start second-guessing yourself_ now.

Then the fist had parted, gripping his fingers, and star-black had swirled him around and down....

And Ja’far of Sindria had grinned at him, fierce and purely happy, in a way he couldn’t remember from _either_ life.

He’d come to himself inside the spell-ward with a stunned sense of relief. Sinbad’s prime minister didn’t believe he’d chosen the wrong course. Not only didn’t condemn him, but seemed to feel that steering Simon away from the most deadly dangers, pushing the man to think before he totally upended people’s lives, standing up to him and snarling back when something not only zipped blithely past the bounds of sanity but hurtled headlong into _oh god we’re all going to die_ \- wasn’t wrong. That holding back, not pushing Simon to be as deadly and ruthless as Sinbad had been - wasn’t a failure.

_This is a second chance. Simon’s never been hurt the way Mariadel hurt Sinbad; never down to the soul. It’s all right to do things differently_.

_It’s all right to be gentle_.

He’d felt so torn about that, for years. This was a gentler world, at least the parts Simon usually traveled through. A more connected world; it actually made ruthless, practical sense not to let Simon just sweep through like a tornado, not when rumors and revenge for the (sometimes literal) wreckage left in his wake could be just a phone call away.

And that connection made it even more vital not to push Simon to be deadly; he was already far too daring even without any further edge of ruthlessness. Hollywood and politicians tended to be glued together like peanut butter and jelly, and if there were people less moral than hereditary kings, career politicians were definitely leading the pack. If Simon began playing seriously, so would they. None of Simon’s people needed to get caught up in political games if they could avoid it. Ever.

Ja’far had told himself that, and the reasons all made sense, but-

_I felt so selfish_.

After all, keeping Simon out of games with deadly stakes meant keeping himself out, too. And he’d been so tired of death. It seemed crazy, given what he remembered, but....

_My parents -_ Zmiinyi’s _parents - taught me to save lives. Not to end them_.

But he’d been the only _aware_ ally Simon had had, for so long. Yes, anyone who’d been swept up in one of Simon’s plans knew the man was a certifiable maniac. And yes, Simon’s parents - Althea and retired Gunnery Sergeant Barney Cavins, lovely people, Ja’far had met them with his heart in his mouth - they knew they’d raised a charming, well-meaning hellion. But no one else had any clue of the swath of destruction Simon could carve if he ever chose to, in Mencken’s phrase, _spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and start slitting throats_.

Ja’far had once tried to calculate the odds for finding any other souls from Sindria in this day and age. He’d given up after the first few attempts, because the chances of running face-to-face into anyone he’d ever known in a world of seven _billion_ people... it was just too depressing.

Then Simon had dragged him into the grizzly territory of Alaska, and they’d ended up helping a swordsman and survival expert haul some very sheepish soldiers out of- well, not quite deadly trouble. But it could have been, if Tiburon hadn’t been as levelheaded and bloody-minded in this life as the last.

He could still see it in his head, clear as yesterday. Sharrkan. Dark hair, and too pale, but _Sharrkan,_ bundled up like an outsider in Imuchakk ice as he stood on a snowy cliff, smirking at Simon and yelling casual snark and insults down at his victims- er, slightly less than enthusiastic students.

Simon, damn him, had pictures. Despite all Ja’far’s efforts to track down the files and eliminate them.

Not that Ja’far thought anyone could blame him for being in utter and complete shock. Or for looking around for snakes and smirking Amazonian women. Or wincing, as he recalled that yes, he still knew the damned leaf trick, and if Simon’s casual taunts to the soldiers below about paying up bar tabs and a rematch at strip poker had any substance at all, Ja’far was going to laugh in his face and disappear to spend the night safely out of range in a tree.

_There are some choices no man should have to face_.

Of course, he’d verbally shaken Simon down for details on Tiburon at the first whispering opportunity. Which Simon, being Simon, had taken the opportunity to duck, dodge, split verbal hairs, and otherwise be infuriatingly cagey about giving to him. The man was lucky Ja’far couldn't actually reach into his skull to yank out the answers. Because he was in no mood to be subtle, given the way part of his brain was squeaking like a happy, sugar-high Svitlana and jumping up and down like Aladdin at a feast with pretty ladies.

_It’s Sharrkan! It’s Sharrkan! I’m not alone, there’s someone else who can deal with insanity, how did he meet Simon and not get swept up immediately, never mind he’s here now and oh Solomon I_ missed _him_ -

_I’ve found another General. We have backup_.

Which was enough crazy optimism to wake the rest of Ja’far up in self-defense, because the universe was _never_ that kind. Simon had found another General. One might be coincidence. Two? The rukh had to have plans. _Had_ to.

Plans that made Ja’far all the more tense, because it only took a little Simon-watching to realize they _didn’t_ have backup. Not quite. Tiburon seemed more than willing to let them fall into his circle of friends and allies... but that was all. He’d let them join _him_. Not dropped the rest of his life to follow Simon like metal filings followed a magnet. The swordsman had his own priorities in this life, the students at the bottom of the cliff obviously ranking high on the list. Oh, Ja’far was sure Tiburon would do _something_ if he and Simon called for help; but it’d be a favor to eccentric friends, not Sharrkan’s loyalty. And it was beyond unfair to feel betrayed because Tiburon didn’t sense those ancient ties.

Still, the survival instructor had jumped into Simon-handling with glee and gusto, more than willing to help the man polish good survival skills into phenomenal ones. Even willing, if slightly taken aback, to help a former assassin hone some definitely shady skills back into modern form, in return for information on venoms, poisons, and diseases that would save lives in the field.

But without the memories of who they’d once been, the swordsman had no way to see the depths of the danger that could swallow them all. Ja’far had tried to tell him, but - Solomon, how could anyone in this world even believe the razor-edged precipice he balanced on, between the devil of Simon’s recklessness, and the smothering deep blue sea of being... less. _Stifled_. Less than a warrior. Less than a king. Less than the hero Sinbad had been for so long.

_Before everything went wrong_.

Every step on that edge felt like manipulating Simon. Like taking advantage of that other life to snip threads of possibility before they could ever spin into reality. Ja’far had tried not to push things; tried to tell Simon enough stories of Sinbad, good and bad, so the man could draw his own conclusions of what had been worth the risk and what tore people apart. He’d told those stories to Tiburon, too - the man hadn’t believed in past lives until he’d smacked straight into his own, but Tiburon had still given Simon another point of view to consider. After all, it was one thing for an ancient assassin to say things had gone wrong. If a modern day black ops specialist thought some of Sinbad’s methods were beyond the pale, then any man had to pause and reflect.

So if it was manipulation, at least Ja’far had Sharrkan’s tacit approval for it. Which had made him feel better. A little. And even with the swordsman’s help, keeping Simon to manageable trouble could have tried the patience of a saint, and - if all the frustration involved in creating Hancock the legal way so they could guide children instead of nations was _taking it easy_ , he’d hate to see hard....

_He smiled at me_.

His past self thought he’d made the right call. That he was handling Simon, and their allies, and this whole crazy school, just fine. That this mad plan of dungeons and magic and students... _wasn’t wrong._

_It’s crazy. But Sindria was crazy, too. Maybe we really can make this work after all_.

Aladdin had turned out to be highly huggable, even if he’d been a little surprised. Simon had just grinned and hugged back; either he’d get an explanation later or not, but far be it from him to turn down friendly warmth.

_And that’s friendship, not calculation_ , Ja’far thought now, prodding his pillow into a slightly more comfortable lump. _Solomon, but I missed that with Sin. After that mess in Partevia, he just started pulling away_....

Which should have been his first clue, back then. Instead he’d explained it away countless times. They were busy. Al-Thamen was everywhere. A king had to work harder than an adventurer, or even a merchant. They were saving the world; there wasn’t time to just... be friends.

Even if Sinbad had been the first friend he’d ever had.

He’d loved the man, in the way only a damaged, love-starved assassin could love the warm heart that’d pulled him out of the darkness. Loved him, trusted him, would have laid down his life for him....

_And I still let him slip through my fingers_.

... _No. Not just me. We all did_.

Argh. The past was the past. He’d seen what had happened when he’d failed to pay attention; he wouldn’t let it happen twice. And even if he slipped, Tiburon would be there to slap them both and get them back on track.

Solomon, he’d missed Sharrkan. True, even if he’d only met Malachy a few days ago, there was nothing like having the solidity of a trained Fanalis at your back. And he’d _trusted_ Tiburon. But trusting a friendly Black Ops knife-trainer wasn’t the same as trusting the swordsman who’d fought and killed at his side.

_Brothers bound by blood_. Ja’far drew a quiet breath in, and slowly breathed it out. _Someone I know_ will _kill - to protect himself, to protect those he cares for_.

It was a weight off his shoulders. A leaden shackle he’d carried so long, he’d almost forgotten it.

_If someone needs to die to keep those we love alive - I’m not the only one with the perspective to make that call. I’m not the only one who’s crossed that line. I’m not the only one who won’t freeze_.

Granted, he knew Simon would make a valiant go of aggressive self-defense. But the fact remained that so far as he knew, Simon had _never_ killed a human being. It made a difference.

_Let’s hope he never has to_. Ja’far blinked at the darkness of just past midnight. _The spell_ works. _I have to send a copy back home_.

It’d take the clan some time to build up the necessary magoi, or work out enough component combinations to make up for some of the pure power a magi had drawn from the world. But it could be done - and even if his parents didn’t understand their assassin of a son, he knew they’d argue with the clan to try a better spell.

_The clan. My clan_.

Odd, how thinking of the Magnos clan as _his_ didn’t hurt quite as much. Maybe it was the rush of hope he felt, knowing that if he couldn’t talk his parents out of presenting Svitlana for the spell when she turned thirteen, at the very least he and Aladdin had come up with a version that wouldn’t tear a mind and soul apart.

_She was so little when I left_.

Not that he could have stayed. The clan didn’t trust him. Better to leave with Simon and let the clan take _Simon’s_ help, than stay and have his closest relatives second-guessing every move he made.

_I wish I could just hold her again, without being afraid_....

Not afraid of hurting _her_ ; no, never of that. She was his baby sister - and his past self had never had a sister to hurt. Svitlana was safe from his twitchy reflexes. The only associations she triggered were _now_. Holding her after she was born. Watching young eyes blink at the rukh. Carrying a tiny dark-haired sister piggyback, before he’d faced the Magnos spell and _everything_ had gone wrong.

Holding her behind him in a dark Slavutych alley near the railyard, three _Brigada_ thugs bleeding out in the snow. A great-uncle and cousin from the clan staring, eyes darting between him and the soon-to-be bodies; as if somehow defending his baby sister from rape and murder was worse than being the bastards who’d threatened to do it in the first place....

And that didn’t even _begin_ to cover the blistering words the clan had had for him when he’d rescued Simon from that bunch of Chechen rebels, just a week after they’d met. It hadn’t even mattered to them that he hadn’t killed anyone to do it that time. Not even the dogs.

_Oh, yes, use magic and clever words to handle evil men, so they think we’re just rumors and fairytales. That’s fine, but if those don’t work you’re going to_ die. _And not just you, but-!_

Arguing didn’t help. He _knew_ that. From painful experience, in both lives. But if the clan elders were so determined not to listen - and these were the people whose decisions held sway over his sister’s future, he couldn’t let their mistrust of him spread to her-!

Ja’far growled, and thumped his head against the pillow. He needed to _sleep_ , not poke old wounds. They’d won a battle today. He should focus on that.

_Won it well, and hands down_ , Ja’far smirked, thinking of the MacLeas’ dinner party. Everyone there had pitched in; he’d cleaned various vegetables, Simon had kept an eye on boiling pasta, and Tiburon had claimed enough room at the dining table to dice bacon in midair with Shionne’s kitchen knives, crunchy bits raining down into the salad with perfect aim.

“So when are we building a fire pit at the school, Simon?” Tiburon had mused. “When the monsters do finally start popping up, not all of the kids are going to want to try sashimi.” He’d flipped a knife over in his hand, pointing at Ja’far. “Come to think, listening to a few of his lectures, I’m not sure _I_ want sashimi. Fish parasites in this world are nasty.”

“Parasitology books are scary,” Ja’far had agreed. “It’s a wonder we were all as healthy back then as we were.”

“Feeding five Fanalis, and no sea serpents.” Tiburon had glanced at Malachy then, and shaken his head. “You keep three fishermen in business all by yourselves, don’t you?”

“Four,” Malachy had deadpanned. “Our relatives think the seafood festivals are the perfect time for family reunions.”

Such a little thing, that conversation. And yet Ja’far treasured it, because it meant the spell had _worked_.

_He knows who he is. He’s Tiburon. But he_ was _Sharrkan - and he remembers that clearly, too_.

All told, it’d been a spectacularly good day-

Was that the phone ringing?

* * *

“In a plane,” Tiburon grumbled under his breath as Simon started pounding on the Silversmiths’ front door; Malachy had been all tense, stoic silence since he’d taken Morgan’s brief phone call, so _someone_ had to grumble about the insane heroics their students were trying to pull off. “ _In_ a plane. So much for TSA security measures. How did they do that?”

“When we _catch_ them, we’ll ask.” Ja’far fingered his knives. “You have to recall that even if we haven’t done a formal memory spell on him, between Amon and Aladdin’s magic, Alan has been remembering bits of Alibaba’s life.”

“How do you know?” Tiburon pounced. “He hasn’t mentioned it.”

“Did you think he would?” Ja’far said dryly. “He’s not even comfortable with Amon’s lesser abilities yet. I doubt he’d mention _oh, I remember back-alley fights in Qishan that I won,_ for anything less than water torture.” He shrugged. “Aladdin’s been keeping an eye on Alan’s rukh. He hasn’t been tampering, but he has been watching.”

Oh. And _eep_. “So, you mean... oh, Solomon. How many ways did Alibaba find off of Sindria?” Tiburon stared at the Silversmiths’ door, feeling a sort of numb fascination take hold. Back then, he hadn’t really paid much attention to Balbadd’s kidnapped prince until after the Maharagan, when Sinbad had turned the kid over to Sharrkan for training. But he’d definitely heard the stories about Ja’far’s latest Sinbad-inflicted headache. And laughed at them. Until he’d been handed a Metal Vessel User who had no idea what he was doing... at least, compared to Sinbad.

“I _lost count_.” Ja’far was rubbing his head, obviously remembering the mess in grand and glorious detail. “If he’d had an intact Vessel for Amon, he might have made it.” He blew out a breath. “What I want to know is, how did they talk Morgan into it?”

Tiburon traded a glance with Malachy. The Fanalis shook his head, and eyed Ja’far. “Kid needs a rescue. And Alan _asked_.”

“He....” Ja’far groaned. “Of course he did. Kings!”

“Do I hear my past profession being taken in vain?” Simon said wryly, shaking out his fist. “How soundly do these people sleep?”

“I should have made noise bending the gate,” Malachy mused.

“No, we don’t need the cops yet,” Simon said firmly. “Although I swear that when we do catch them I will be tempted to _handcuff_ the three of them.” He paused, and chuckled. “Not that that would work, would it?”

“Given their various skills, a guilt-trip would be more effective,” Ja’far said clinically.

“Not to mention Alan’s likely to maim anyone who puts chains on Morgan, _ever_ ,” Tiburon jumped in. Best to nip that in the bud right now. “If Morgan left anything for him but a smear on the sidewalk. Fanalis back then - Ja’far can tell you how they fared, when people had magic and poisons to grab themselves a powerful slave.” Masrur and Morgiana hadn’t talked about it much, but Alibaba... oh Solomon, he remembered how the kid would talk in his cups. Mostly about incredibly innocent teenage lust, but there’d been enough scattered in there of how he’d met his beautiful Morg before, during, and after Amon’s dungeon for Sharrkan to put the pieces together.

No, no handcuffs. If Alan or Morgan remembered _anything_ of Morgiana’s past - well. The kids weren’t killers. But if there was anything more likely to drive a young man to _blinding rage_....

_Actually I can think of a few things. But all of them would imply someone dead or dying, and hopefully we won’t go there_.

From the shadows darkening Ja’far’s eyes, he’d thought of them as well. But the former assassin smirked at Simon anyway. “Stick to the guilt-trip. From you, it will scar them for life.”

Simon _hmph_ ed. “I’m not going to guilt-trip a bunch of teenagers for jumping into the fire to save people. I’m allergic to hypocrisy. Overexposure in Hollywood.”

“Don’t do it for the saving,” Tiburon advised. “That’ll never get through.” He had enough experience with shady operators to know that. _Never leave a man behind_. Covert teams depended on that trust. “Do it for leaving us here in the dust. You don’t just dump allies.”

“They snuck on a plane,” Malachy pointed out. “Probably couldn’t have fit us all on.”

“Point,” Tiburon sighed. “And if it’s a kid... well. Time is worth more than gold. Every hour someone has her, the more likely it is she’ll end up dead.”

“...You’re right.” Ja’far looked like he’d bitten into a lemon. “I’d forgotten that. In the old world, it wouldn’t have mattered so much; you could hold a street rat for years, even, and only their kin would care. In this world, in this place, whoever has her has to know they’re running on borrowed time.” He sighed. “And here I was hoping hitting Alan over the head would get him to remember he should _ask for help_. It’s the only thing that ever worked on Alibaba.”

“Too much time on his own,” Tiburon reflected. “Give him some time to get used to the fact he has backup, first.”

“As long as we’re all decided we’ll be that backup,” Simon said grimly, glancing at Malachy’s tilt of head, as if the Fanalis were listening to footsteps beyond the door. “Richard is going to be a tough nut to crack.”

* * *

Wrapped in a navy bathrobe, Richard sat at the kitchen table and stared at Simon and his accomplices. “Alan is _where?_ ”

“Probably Atlanta, by this time,” Simon mused, not taking his eyes off the man. Let Ja’far and Tiburon watch Edna and Samuel, while Malachy kept an ear out for any footfall that might mean Bertram had finally woken with the rest of the house. He’d focus on their primary opponent. Hopefully soon to be their ally. “Most of the flights from here to the Northeast go through that hub.”

“Then we should call-”

“If our local security didn’t catch those three breaking into the airport - and then an air _plane_ \- to hitch a ride in with the crated dachshunds, I seriously doubt Atlanta would have any better luck,” Simon said wryly. “I have it on good authority that Alan is highly skilled in sneaking into places he’s not supposed to be, and with Morgan and Aladdin- oh no. No, I wouldn’t send any poor, innocent airport cops up against those three. They’d leave the poor men tied and gagged in a bathroom stall. Speaking from personal experience, that’s slightly better than being handcuffed to a corpseflower. But only slightly.” He leaned forward, intent. “Richard, they believe there’s a little girl in danger. There may not be _time_ to let officials catch them. We don’t know where they are now; we do know where they will be. Better if we follow, so we can drag them out of whatever trouble they find.”

Richard rubbed a palm across his face, as if he could scrub away sleepiness. “If there’s a child in danger, why wouldn’t they call the police?”

“I have to admit, I’ve been wondering,” Simon reflected. “All three of them have a higher danger tolerance than your average teenager, but that’s a damn flippant message to drop on Malachy’s head, given Alan has to know they’re heading into an active homicide investigation....”

Richard twitched.

All eyes centered on him. Even Samuel’s, Simon was surprised to see.

Though it was Edna’s look that really made Simon’s heart sink. _He didn’t tell her? He had a damn good reason - the best of reasons - to drag his illegitimate son into the heart of polite society, and he didn’t even mention it?_

Well. Seemed like Alan came by his close-mouthed stubbornness honestly.

But Edna was made from damn stern stuff, he had to give her that. She braced manicured fingers on the table. Glanced between her husband and her wide-eyed younger son. And settled her gaze on Richard, voice low and _very_ quiet. “ _What_ homicide investigation?”

“You haven’t even-!” Ja’far almost started up from his seat.

Simon laid a hand on his shoulder. “No. We’ll say nothing. Unless it becomes critical for the youngsters. I can hire a plane and get us there alone. _We_ know what’s at stake.”

“Miss Ryans’ death.” Samuel swallowed dryly. “It w-wasn’t an accident, was it?”

“No,” Richard said at last. “Apparently not. There was a man in the car. They found the body. No one knows why-”

“Of course they know! You’d know, if you thought about it!” Edna’s knuckles paled as she gripped the table, eyes brilliant with rage... and something more. “Whatever I thought about _that woman_ , she was a mother. She looked after her son!”

_Oh, he’s in trouble now_. Simon hid an evil chuckle. It wasn’t that funny.

...Well, maybe it was. But he shouldn’t gloat about it. Really.

“It didn’t work.” Richard’s mouth drew tight with pain. “She didn’t stop whoever was responsible. He was still being poisoned. Agent - someone who contacted me found mentions of designer drugs in Anne’s notes. Things that supposedly treated hopeless cases... or killed without a trace. Things medical tests couldn’t find. Just as they couldn’t find what was killing Alan. How could I tell the boy his mother had died for him, and it was for nothing?”

Ow. And almost plausible, Simon reflected. Damn, but the man was slippery.

“That’s actually not the case,” Ja’far said quietly. “Alan’s symptoms sounded oddly familiar, so I did some further research. And I checked him over myself.” The magician paused, one flutter of eyelashes long; an eternity, for an ex-assassin. “If he was poisoned, it’s already left his system. But I would say that the most likely cause was a rare but known physiological response to an unusual environmental insult. I’ve seen it in some of my own relatives.”

Samuel peered at him skeptically. “Alan has _allergies?_ ”

“Not in a fashion most Western medicine is familiar with,” Ja’far allowed, “but I have seen it before.”

“Don’t think this gets you off the hook!” Edna glared at her husband, narrow-eyed. “You? Are on the _couch_. For the foreseeable future. At least until you tell that boy the whole story! You knew he was in danger, and you didn’t tell any of us.”

“Because he was safe now,” Richard started.

“You didn’t know that!”

“But Edna,” Richard tried, “he wasn’t there-”

“You thought someone poisoned a fifteen-year-old boy, and you really believed they’d stop because you crossed a few state lines?” Edna loosened her grip on the table before her nails risked splintering. “Didn’t it occur to you he might be a witness?”

“No! He couldn’t have been,” Richard objected. “Alan wasn’t there when - when she died....”

“Lawyer! You know you don’t have to be there to place a criminal at the scene of a crime! All you have to do is know _something_ that gives the police a lead!” Edna’s eyes closed a moment, one pained shake of her head. “Of course he wasn’t there. He’d have been killed too! But that doesn’t matter, does it? Because _you_ weren’t there. And you’ve been blaming yourself for that all this time. That’s why you said nothing. Because you were hurt, and you hurt me, and if I’m busy being horrible to the - to _Anne’s son_ , then you don’t have to feel so guilty about what you did to both of us!” Her voice was thick, tear-choked. “I used to wonder why Anne wouldn’t fight me for you. But if this is how you’ve been a father to Alan, then I can’t wonder anymore. You didn’t bring him here as a boy who needed love. You brought him as a _problem_ you felt _responsible_ for!”

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon caught Ja’far’s subtle wince.

_Oh hell. As Twain said, the past seldom repeats, but it often rhymes_. Simon hid a grimace, watching Richard’s expression go from worried to the best poker face he’d ever seen, including the times he’d looked across his cards at determined Black Ops soldiers down to their last three socks. The nape of his neck was prickling, remembering what Ja’far had told him of Rashid and Alibaba in that ancient life. _Alibaba wasn’t a beloved son. Cared for, wanted, yes - but above all else, he was Rashid’s way to solve the problem of Balbadd’s succession, when his elder_ legitimate _sons weren’t fit to be king_.

Granted, Simon didn’t think Richard had scooped Alan up to run his law firm. But the teenager’s bewildered flailing about what made his father happy, his outright avoidance of the man as much as possible, his ingrained flinch from situations that ought to be safe if a father had just taken the time to tell his son how to stand up for his own right to exist-

_Richard wasn’t there when Alan needed him. And his idea of_ solving _that is to give the boy to me to teach_. Simon blinked, considering that all over again, in light of Ja’far’s tales of Sinbad and the fact that even by _Hollywood_ standards, Simon Cavins was a certifiable maniac. He tried not to break into a cold sweat. _I’m supposed to take over for fifteen years of a father falling down on the job? Oh god. Please, please let Malachy be willing to help me with this. I don’t know anything about raising children!_

“And you told me just enough to make Alan my problem,” Edna charged on. “And I fell for it! I wanted to hate him. And why shouldn’t I? I thought he was safe here. That the worst he had to face was a failing grade - and what boy cares about that when he suddenly has money to burn? I thought he was here because _you felt guilty_ , and I’ve been watching him like a hawk for when - when! - he’d take advantage of that. Only he hasn’t! And now he’s in danger, deadly danger, when he could have come to us and asked for help if he’d just trusted us!” Her eyes glittered with angry tears. “Did you think I wouldn’t _care?_ ”

Out of the corner of his eye, Simon caught Tiburon shifting subtly in his chair. Just in case this ceased to be simply _verbal_ violence.

_The lady’s in the right, though_ , Simon thought ruefully. _That, is a very low blow_.

“When it comes to Alan, I obviously don’t think very clearly,” Richard admitted, face still as unperturbed as if they were discussing the weather. “But I knew Anne. Her answer to danger was always to _run_. I thought Alan was more likely to vanish if he knew he was at risk. And then how could any of us help him? I had alerts set with the airlines, bus companies, train stations... how could he do this? _Why_ would he do this?” He glanced at Malachy, shoulders hunching with calculated guilt. “Much less drag in two other children-”

“Because he’s _your son!_ ”

From that hiss, Edna had gone from fuming to low boil. Richard stiffened. Samuel, showing what Simon considered an incredible degree of bravery _and_ common sense, seemed content to just sit back and watch.

“You... I have to sympathize so much with Elizabeth,” Edna said through clenched teeth, “because if your mother had to deal with half the harebrained stunts all your children have pulled when they were _helping other people_ , it’s a wonder she has any hair left. Bertram shook up an entire country club with that last discrimination suit, Samuel took on the _IRS_ \- how could you not see this coming? You took Alan away from children he was trying to keep safe. When was the last time you let anyone take you off a case when someone _needed_ you? Even when they couldn’t pay? Even when there were threats?” Her breath caught. “You’re the white knight of the courtroom. Only you rescue innocents from _lawsuits_ , not dragons. You save them with cutting arguments, not Excalibur. But you still save them.” She sniffled, and wiped at her eyes with her robe’s sleeve. “It’s why I’ve always loved you. You thickheaded _idiot_.”

“Edna,” Richard said softly.

“I’ve never been brave,” Edna said thickly, eyes still wet. “Anne was. You loved that about her. Well, now that’s come back to haunt you - haunt _us_ \- because Alan is _just like you_. Only he’s as brave as she was, and that means-!” Closing her eyes, she shook her head, wordless.

“Oh, Mom,” Samuel murmured, putting an arm around her.

“Edna.” Richard sat up straight, face set and serious. “How did you know Alan was looking after other children? I didn’t even know. Sister Thomasina only said he’d brought children to her attention; the FBI thought the Ryans were just investigating a story....”

Oddly enough, it was Samuel who gave his father a wry - if shy - look. “You asked me to do research on Miss Ryans and Alan. And... well, Mom has connections.”

For a moment, Richard was speechless.

“Oh, Richard,” Edna sighed, almost _tsk_ ing. “You married me for family ties, among other things. Did you think I’d only use them for your benefit?”

The poker face didn’t fracture, but Simon caught that slight swallow Richard made.

“Alan _is_ family, whether I like it or not,” Edna said briskly, scrubbing away tears. “Even if I didn’t feel a little responsible for the boy - _your_ boy - I’d have to keep an eye on him, for the sake of our family. What if he went to juvenile court? What if he ended up in jail? The lawyers you lock horns with up East would make sure Alan ended up in front of a vicious judge, just so they’d have something to hang on _you_. I had to head that off, if I could. Special Agent Haughn has given me monthly updates for years.” She sniffed, and tapped herself on the cheek; a mimed, genteel slap of self-reproof. Simon wanted to sit up and applaud it. “Although now I know I should have asked for more details. Especially about the landfill. Anything with a Shays shell company involved is apparently very bad news.”

“What about the landfill?” Richard asked warily.

_Oh, I can’t resist_. “The exploding landfill, ma’am?” Simon said, almost innocently.

Richard paled.

“Yes, that one,” Edna nodded regally. “I wrote a check to the local fire department in recognition of their quick thinking and dedication to the underserved in their community. Anyone who pulls your son out of potentially toxic combustion deserves a nice bonus.” She glanced at her husband. “Don’t worry, the donation was anonymous.”

“ _What_ exploding landfill?” Richard choked out. “ _Alan_ was in the middle of-?”

“Well, yeah,” Sam said hesitantly. “He didn’t go into lots of details, but... it’s up on his blog. Has been for a few years now.”

Which wasn’t exactly an answer, Simon was dryly amused to note. Evidently darting around the strict truth was a family habit.

“His blog.” Richard’s eyes narrowed. Obviously filing this under, _I will pin people down for details, at the next possible opportunity_.

“I’ve been reading it for years. Mom wanted to know.” Sam hesitated. “Blogs, now.” Dark eyes darted to meet Simon’s gaze, just for a second. “At least you’re no Professor Xavier. You get out and _do_ something about the danger.”

“I like to think so, yes,” Simon agreed. Why bring up that principal, rather than someone much less effective on the paranormal front? “Though we still haven’t pinned down that arsonist yet.”

“That _alchemist_.” Samuel held his gaze a moment more this time, even if pale hands were trembling. “That’s what your students are calling him. They’re being really vague, even on social media - and that’s _weird_ , for teenagers.”

Well. This was an interesting twist. One that might make it hard for them to keep magic swept under the rug as much as he’d hoped. But he could still work with this. “Oh, good,” Simon stated, “they were actually listening when I gave them the speech on nondisclosure agreements and class projects-”

“Then why are Hancock students the only ones calling him an alchemist?” Sam cut him off. “I checked with the fire department. And the cops. _They_ say arsonist. And no one’s calling it a project.” Fingers worked against each other, as if Sam wanted to fret something to bits. “Dissecting crabs in Biology - that’s the scary ninja project. Obstacle courses, that’s the _augh halp iz ded_ project. Callimachus?” He shook his head. “Do you really think we’re going to believe you convinced a thousand high school students to do flash-mob method acting - and _keep it up_ , even on the internet - when whatever _really_ blew up ended up with firetrucks at Hancock?”

... _Damn_ , Simon almost sighed. _He had to use logic_.

“So. Principal Cavins.” Sam swallowed hard. “What really happened on Monday, and why hasn’t my little brother said anything about getting dragged into the middle of it?”

“What?” Richard started. “He said there’d been an alarm, he never said anything about-!”

Bringing a cell phone out of his pocket, Sam lit the screen. “There are pictures.”

_Er. This is going to be harder to sweep under than I thought_.

“Alan knows about the pictures,” Tiburon said, almost casually. “I hope they haven’t spread too far. We do have NDAs... and he doesn’t seem comfortable with the attention.”

“Pity, too,” Simon mused. “He was fantastic. Knew he had the potential, from the first time we booted him on the stage.”

“He did mention that,” Sam said, after a glance at his father; Richard’s slight nod made him straighten, brave enough to continue the attack. “He didn’t say much more than it wasn’t fun, but he did say it happened.” He took a deep breath. “S-so why didn’t he say anything about the fire? And the _costume?_ ”

“There was an actual fire?” Richard blinked. “Not just a prank with the alarm?”

“What costume?” Edna said suspiciously.

“Like I said.” Sam swiped a thumb across his phone, nodding as he found what he wanted. “There are pictures.”

_Oh_.

Simon made a mental note to track down the student photographer and make sure they got extra training. Because he’d been a bit too busy with a dragon and terrified students and Fomoire chains to actually appreciate the spectacle, and they’d caught one moment _perfectly_.

_Gold and scales and fire_.

Wreathed in flames, Alan perched fire-footed on a dragon’s garnet-scaled spine, blond tails of hair fluttering back behind one sweep of a wide wing. White and crimson skirts were belted with silken black, almost mundane next to the gauntlets of bright lava sheathing each arm to the elbow. Gold glittered from earrings, necklaces, armlets; sun’s fire next to the lava-sweep of flame lancing out from the impossible black sword slashing down in one overhand blow-

_He knew what he was doing_ , Simon thought. The photo wasn’t enough of a close-up to catch every nuance of expression, but the stance, the pure focus of that golden gaze on his target, the smooth sweep of motion, precise as Tiburon in the midst of kata....

_In that moment, he knew exactly what he was doing_. Simon smiled. _Now, if we can just get him that confident with everything else_.

Sam eyed his phone a moment more, shaking his head. Glanced up at Simon - and stared.

_What? Why- damn, wasn’t thinking, wasn’t acting_ -

“That’s the first time you’ve seen that picture,” Richard declared, gauging both their reactions. “Very interesting, Principal Cavins... given you poke your nose into _everything_ filmed on Hancock’s grounds. After all, that’s your job.”

_In for a penny, in for a million_ , Simon thought wryly. Glanced at his friends. Tiburon shrugged; Ja’far arched a white-streaked brow in a familiar, _you make the play, I’ll back you_. Malachy... well, Malachy was dangerously still, all too obviously annoyed that his niece was in trouble and he wasn’t in it up to his neck with her. Yet.

“In a way, I wish I were responsible for this,” Simon said quietly. “Then you could stop me, and those three brave young idiots would be safe. But I’m not, and they are in very real danger. Because sneaking through airport security is the least of what they can do. And sooner or later, if we’re not very careful to airbrush everything with special effects and cameras everywhere, people besides Callimachus will figure that out.”

Sam started. “Airbrush?”

Richard was blinking, reaching out to steady his son. Edna... was looking at them both. And then at Simon, with the sort of quiet determination he’d once seen a costumer turn on a bolt of supposedly silk fabric. Right before she’d flicked open a lighter.

Silk burned. Polyester _melted_.

Given he’d been one of the actors who would have been wearing that fabric on a burning set, Simon had never forgotten that critical test.

_Edna has the determination_ , Simon thought _. If she’s willing to face hard truths - maybe they all can_.

“How much do you want to know?” Simon rested his hands over each other, looking each of the Silversmiths in the eye. “Human nature being what it is, we’ll need a lawyer on our side eventually. But there’s a very real chance knowing the whole truth would put you in danger. Not from us. From people who want miracles without having to pay for them.”

“Just the whole world, then,” Richard said dryly. “I take it this has something to do with why you have an unexpected cousin. And why an _alchemist_ has attacked my son. Twice.”

“He’s after the boy.” Edna gave Simon a glance that said he’d be next to be flayed, with salt. “Aladdin.”

“He’s after both of them.” Ja’far folded his hands together. Not just a self-calming gesture, Simon realized, seeing the faint glimmers of rukh stirring around pale fingers. A way to avoid any stray twitches that might rouse magic. “The details are complicated....”

“Aladdin is a surviving remnant of another time,” Simon declared, in his best movie pitch style. “An alternate universe, an eon lost to modern history - who knows. He was in stasis, Callimachus dragged him out-”

“Principal Cavins.” Richard braced his hands on the table, looking calmly annoyed as a judge about to toss a three-time-loser in the slam for good. “Please don’t insult our intelligence. Do you think this is a joke? This isn’t a producer’s office.”

“I am not laughing.” Simon met his gaze; frank, open, letting them see his worry. “If this were Hollywood I could yell ‘Cut!’ Aladdin is _not from our world_. He’s from somewhere else. Some _when_ else. He was hidden away for his own protection. Callimachus broke in and took him - and then, when he couldn’t get what he wanted directly from his prisoner, he went looking for someone he could use as leverage. He found Alan and Morgan.”

“A bit like finding a bear trap.” Tiburon smirked. “With your toes.”

Right; now how to explain this without going into some of the crazier details of reincarnation and spiritual bonds, given he didn’t quite understand all that himself-

“Alan said he was looking for the power of a Djinn.” Richard took a deep breath. “Alternate worlds, other times... assume I grant you this is what you’ve been told. Even what Aladdin and Callimachus _believe_ is the truth. Within that framework - Callimachus isn’t a delusional maniac. He’s after something that does exist?”

“He is,” Simon nodded, hiding any _eep_ behind Hollywood casual. _Don’t flinch, this could be useful. If Richard already knows a Djinn’s power is involved, we can stick to that. And leave our own secrets hidden_. “Don’t ask me how widespread this mess is, this is the first _magical_ megalomaniac I’ve butted heads with. But at this point he’s not far off script for your more intelligent than normal, patient evil mastermind.”

“Calling him that implies he didn’t find Alan by accident.” Richard folded his arms, bearing alone making the bathrobe elegant as a full suit and tie. “Why does he want my son?”

“Because Alan _inherited_ something after Anne’s death,” Simon replied, loosely crossing his own; _I hear you, but I don’t plan to up the threat level. Let’s just not get into the fact that it didn’t have anything to do with Anne outside of the timing. I think_. “Something very old, and very powerful.”

Richard paled. “You’re saying....”

“Alan has a magic lamp?” Samuel blurted out. “I know he’s using _OpenSezMe_ as a handle, but-!”

Ja’far made a strangled noise. It sounded suspiciously like _Disney_.

“It’s got nothing to do with magic lamps,” Tiburon stuck in, eyes narrowed, “and _less_ than nothing to do with wishes.” He leaned back, poised as a waiting leopard. “Anything more, you should ask him yourself.” The swordsman smirked. “Though I warn you, he really does think the pictures are embarrassing.”

“Is he okay?” Samuel persisted. “I mean, there was fire _everywhere_....”

“He was safe,” Malachy said quietly. “In that moment, he was the safest one there.” The redhead smiled. “Morgan’s never had someone punch a dragon for her before.”

“A dragon,” Richard said blankly. Looked at his son, incredulous. “That was... in the picture, but.... A _dragon?_ ”

It was hard to tell behind Samuel’s nervous hands, but Simon was pretty sure he was smiling.

Richard was shaking his head, incredulous. “There are _dragons?_ ”

Edna hid a snicker behind manicured nails, anger apparently losing the fight with bemusement. “Definitely your son.”

“But- I- it’s completely illogical-” Richard cut himself off, and regarded Simon through narrowed eyes. “If you think this is just a girl in trouble, and you obviously think Alan’s capable of handling any _ordinary_ level of danger, why are all _four_ of you planning to....”

Simon sat on his impatience, and waited. Time was critical. But getting Richard on their side might be even more critical. And that was more likely if the man took the time to examine the facts and draw his own conclusions.

“You think it’s a trap,” Richard said quietly.

“Callimachus hasn’t made another attempt here,” Simon said flatly. “People like him don’t just give up. If he can’t take Aladdin and Alan here, where they have allies - the obvious thing to do is lure them where they _don’t_.”

“But how could he?” The lawyer gave them all a skeptical look. “If this were a kidnapping for ransom, Alan knows enough to bring any threats to the proper authorities.”

“Only... Callimachus didn’t make any threats,” Samuel managed. “He didn’t have to. All he had to do was make sure Maria was in trouble.” He stiffened under their looks, and gulped. “At least I think so.... Is her handle RoseRedMary?”

“No idea,” Simon admitted. “Why?”

Picking up his cell phone again, Samuel called up a webpage and started poking the comments section. “Look here.” He hit the next page. “And here, and here....”

Blog posts, Simon registered, as Samuel put the phone on the table for all of them to glance over. Alan’s, obviously, with a fair amount of commentary on each entry. RoseRedMary seemed to leave at least one short comment a day, on articles that ranged from recycling to wall-climbing to using salt to clean a room for better concentration-

_Which is one way Ja’far tosses out negative energies. Damn. The kid did know something about magic before we got him_.

“And this one,” Samuel finished, shivering a little. “This one is different. And... the timestamp. Just a little before Alan got home. And when you get back to your own computer-”

“You check your sites,” Simon agreed. Watching Tiburon, who’d risen from his chair to intercept control of the phone, paging back and forward through the posts. “What do you see?”

“One kid who’s too clever by half, and one who’s desperate,” Tiburon muttered. “Every other posting has that sigline-”

“I-it’s Quechuan,” Samuel managed. “I looked it up. Something about flying with rainbows?”

Tiburon waved it off. “If the line doesn’t change, what it means isn’t important. What’s important is that it’s _there_.” He pointed at the last post. “And then it’s not.”

“All-clear signal,” Ja’far bit out.

Tiburon nodded. “Definitely.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Richard asked pointedly.

“Old, old military and covert ops trick,” Tiburon explained. “If you think you might be taken under duress, and have to act normally, how do you clue in your allies you need help, without getting your head blown off?” He pushed the phone back toward Samuel. “It’s simple, really. Just takes some planning in advance. As long as things are fine, there’s one thing you always do. Preferably something small. Take your hat off, dust your knees... it can be anything. As long as your friends will see it.” His smile was thin, not quite showing teeth. “Then, if there’s trouble - they know what they _don’t_ see.”

“Which is why the boys asked Morgan to help.” Malachy took a deliberate breath, steady as a stalking lion. “Alan knows it’s a trap.”

The Silversmiths stared at him.

“If he can outthink us, he can outthink a trap,” Malachy said simply. “With Aladdin and Morgan to help? They have a good chance.”

“Only when it comes to a lethal enemy, I don’t _like_ a good chance.” Tiburon’s fingers tapped the table, ready to pounce. “I like them _crushed_.”

Laudable as Simon currently found that attitude, he could see the Silversmiths flinching back from any hint of violence. “So we need to make it perfectly clear to Callimachus he stands no chance whatsoever,” he interjected smoothly. “And we have to do it fast.”

“It’ll take a few hours to arrange a plane,” Richard frowned.

“Just as well.” Simon smiled, rising with his people behind him. “That should give us just enough time to acquire a little more... leverage.”

* * *

Tiburon dropped down to Baal’s pale beach, automatically checking that all three of his comrades had made it through the gate between the worlds. Not that it’d ever gone wrong before, but....

_This time, we’re doing it for real_.

The tactical armguards he and Malachy wore now were proof enough of that; black aramid fiber with shadow-blue fine chainmail that reached from leather half-gloves to the elbow. Utterly beautiful and practical, to Tiburon’s eyes... and, unfortunately, capable of inducing nervous palpitations in rookie cops at a hundred yards. After all, _good citizens_ didn’t wear body armor. Because good citizens weren’t expecting to fight for their lives at a moment’s notice, which implied anyone dressed for trouble was planning to _start_ trouble. Which was as silly as thinking swords were more deadly dangerous than guns, and if you could get a permit for concealed carry why _not_ a sword permit, for goodness’ sake-

Tiburon sighed, shaking off the old irritation. People were people, and sometimes people could be fatally clueless. Meaning all things considered, smart martial artists didn’t break out the body armor unless they _knew_ there was going to be lethal trouble.

_We should have made Morgan wear hers to school,_ Tiburon thought grimly. _Hell, we should get armor for all the kids. And Simon, whether he likes it or not. I know Alan needs to be light to move fast, but modern materials make things a lot more practical than old-fashioned hunks of metal_.

But that would have to happen later. After they found their wayward kittens, and shook them all by the scruff of the neck for scaring their parents and teachers half to death.

_Kittens. Oi. Obviously, Fanalis crazy is contagious_. Tiburon straightened, gripping calm with an effort. “Simon. Are we really sure we want to do this?”

“Part of me doesn’t want to at all,” Simon said wistfully. “We were _just_ getting people used to filming in here.”

Wriggling his fingers to settle a set of black-painted brass knuckles, Malachy tilted his head, and nodded thoughtfully.

Tiburon traded a glance with Ja’far. _Right. Fanalis_.

The ex-assassin cleared his throat. “I think he was referring to the risk of _horrible agonizing death_.”

“Oh, that.” Simon waved a dismissive hand. “Honestly, old friend, we risk that every time we cross the street. Have you seen how some of these tourists drive?”

Tiburon almost growled. _“Simon.”_

Simon took a deep breath, and looked him straight in the eye.

_Not Sinbad_ , Tiburon told himself. _He doesn’t remember. I know he doesn’t._

_...But damned if he doesn’t look just as determined_.

“It’s a trap,” Simon said steadily. “You know it. I know it. Even our wayward youngsters know it. I don’t know exactly what their plans are, but I suspect they’ll be akin to fire; quick and unstoppable. _Unless_ they run into the mystical equivalent of a fire door.” He shook his head. “Callimachus held a magi prisoner. Can we really afford to believe he can’t find a way to kill a Djinn Warrior? He’ll be _ready_ for fire.” He held out a hand. “Are you with me?”

Tiburon loosened his blade in its sheath, and glanced at the friends to each side. “Do you even have to ask?”

* * *

“S-scary monster door voice....” Aladdin clung to Morgan like a frizzed kitten, eyes still wide and blinking at the sheer _weirdness_ of the train they’d ridden in the Atlanta terminal.

She reached around and stroked his braid, just as Aunt Shionne might comfort a youngster during a thunderstorm. Didn’t matter that after they’d gotten off the train they’d had to find the right gate for a Boston-bound plane, sneak past security out various doors, and soar over the night-black tarmac to sneak into another dark cargo hold. The train was still the freakiest part.

“A decade or so back, they used that voice for the whole train, not just the doors.” Alan was keeping a wary eye on some of the crates with airholes as they huddled back against her family bugout pack and various more comfortable backpacks and suitcases. “Kept people from missing their stop.”

Aladdin leaned into her shoulder, white knuckles finally getting some color back into them. “You really think nobody saw us?”

“Between the mirage you cast and the flying carpet? Nobody’s going to give us any trouble,” Alan nodded, confident.

Morgan raised an eyebrow, even if she was fairly sure he wouldn’t catch it in this low light. “Even with the mirage, they might have seen a _flying carpet_.”

“Which nobody, absolutely _nobody_ , is going to report,” Alan chuckled. “Cargo handlers have enough trouble with long hours, low wages, and the occasional idiot falling asleep and getting locked in. They’ll think they were dreaming with their eyes open. Who’s going to believe them if they call it in? Even _they_ aren’t going to believe it.”

She poked him in the shoulder.

“And if somebody finally does, we’ll be long gone,” Alan said, more serious now. “Just remember to keep your voices down. Report I read on a sleeping cargo handler said the crew could hear the guy yelling, so let’s not do that.”

Aladdin sighed, finally relaxing. Then snickered.

“Oh?” Morgan asked.

“You just reminded me of....” His shoulders tensed again. “Old times.”

“Ah.” Morgan nibbled her lip, finally decided on how to approach what she’d wanted for days. “I want to ask you about that.”

“It’s okay.” The magi sounded as if he were trying to convince himself as well as her. “The past is past, I’m going to get to know you now-”

“We’re going into a fight,” Morgan stated. “We need to know how to fight together.”

She heard Alan’s breath catch, before he deliberately smoothed it out again. Not interrupting. Listening.

“We were awesome,” Aladdin said simply. “You’re still good now. It’s just going to take some time.”

Morgan inclined her head; it was a good point. Just not good enough. “This isn’t like travelers raiding a bandit stronghold,” she reminded him, drawing off those shards of bloody, amazing dreams. “Uncle Malachy, Aunt Shionne, Uncle Tiburon - _they_ know we’re not just kids. And that whoever we’re going after are the bad guys. The law won’t know that.”

“Which is why we’re going to go fast, find Maria, drag her out of wherever, then hide out and call your folks so we can get out of here,” Alan agreed. “If we’re lucky, whoever it is won’t even see us zip her out.”

“And if we’re not?” Morgan let go of blue hair. “We’ll have to fight. And if we don’t know what each of us is doing, if we don’t know how to fight _together_ , we’ll leave bodies behind. That would be bad.” She glanced between them both. “We don’t know what we’ll be facing, but it scares Maria enough to use your last resort. We might have to kill.” She paused, letting Alan have a moment to hide his shakes. “It would be better if we didn’t.”

“You don’t know what’s back there.” Alan’s voice was strained, almost too quiet to hear over the rumble of jet engines. “There’s a lot of pain.”

Morgan sighed. So he was trying to protect her. Sweet, but frustrating. “I know I saw you die.” She fixed her gaze on Aladdin. “Unless you say that was just a dream.”

“No. No, that was real.” The magi winced. “It didn’t stick. But - it was bad. You wouldn’t want to remember that. No one would.”

Morgan rested her fingers on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “You already do.”

Aladdin shrugged, smiling fondly back at her.

Alan winced. “I wasn’t thinking about what happened to _me_ , I-” He shook his head, fingers buried in his hair. “You were a slave!”

It hurt. But it was a short, sharp hurt. Not the gnawing ache of not _knowing_.

“No one should have to remember that.” Alan’s voice was ragged, as he pulled one hand down to hug himself against the chill. “I remember seeing you in chains, and there was nothing I could _do_.”

Morgan’s breath caught, her nose bringing her the bitter scent of self-loathing.

“No, there wasn’t.” Aladdin folded his arms, face solemn. “Not then. Slaves were property, and you were just a caravan driver. You couldn’t buy her, and you knew you’d never get far enough if you ran. You were one bad day away from someone grabbing _you_ for a slave, and you knew it.” He smiled, a flicker of sunlight through clouds. “And then we beat Amon’s dungeon, and you freed everyone in Qishan. And you kept on fighting for people to be free, no matter what the Kou Empire thought.” The magi straightened his shoulders, and looked her in the eye. “I can’t tell you what would be the right thing to do, Morgan. He’s right; if you remember everything from back then, it’s going to _hurt_. But you’re right too. If we can’t fight together, then... we might have to hurt people. And I know you don’t want to.”

Morgan licked her lips. Dry air up here, not nerves; if anyone asked, that was her story. “I-”

Alan gripped her hand. “Does it have to be everything?”

Morgan glanced down at pale-knuckled fingers. Flicked her gaze to Aladdin, who looked just as surprised as she felt.

“You said it’s time and space magic,” Alan rushed on, shoving the words out as if he were slamming a plan together even faster. “And that Morgiana was freed in the dungeon, after we met her... we need to fight _together_. So - when we met. When we were together. Use _that_ for the time, and the place. Because the worst stuff happened to her before then, right? And that’s not what we need, we have to _fight_ , not hide in a corner somewhere crying, I... sound ridiculous, okay....”

“No.” Aladdin was wide-eyed, looking at Alan like he’d just pulled a Panzer tank out of a hat. “No, that’s not ridiculous at all! That could _work_.”

“Wha- it could?” Alan blinked at the pair of them. “I mean, I don’t know magic-”

“You know a lot more than you think.” Aladdin drew his wand out of his sleeve. “But if the spell’s going to take when we met for a time, we’re all going to have to be in it. And,” he swallowed, “that’s going to hurt you. A lot.”

“Hurt _him?_ ” Morgan frowned, hands itching to strangle answers out of someone.

Wordless, Aladdin nodded.

“Why?” Morgan pounced.

“If I told you that, we wouldn’t have time to cast the spell before we land.” Aladdin’s smile was bittersweet. “There was a _lot_ that went wrong.” Blue as night, his gaze sought Alan’s. “But I know you’ve been watching Uncle Simon. That you’re worried about him. That you know you _should_ be, and you don’t know why. If you knew - it would help. A lot.”

Alan didn’t try to hide a gulp. Just looked at her, gold eyes wide. “Do you still want to do this?”

Slowly, Morgan nodded. “I’ve hurt people by accident. And I’m stronger now. I don’t want to do that again.” _If I hurt someone, I want it to be on_ purpose.

Alan sighed, and gave Aladdin a rueful shrug. “Then I guess you’d better do it. Before we lose our nerve.”

“We don’t have Ja’far’s kit,” Morgan pointed out.

“I don’t need his kit. I know how the spell works.” Light shimmered about Aladdin’s wand, flutters of silver-sunrise and golden moonlight. “Everything else, is just power.”

* * *

The rukh flashed and fluttered, bright with memory. Aladdin gripped carved mulberry and held the spell against the winds of time. And held....

_Chains. Fire. Monsters_.

Morgiana’s memories stalked and pounced: protect allies, find the enemies, love as fiercely as she killed. Scary and safe all at once; Aladdin felt like wrapping himself in them like a blanket, because they were so _warm_....

But he couldn’t. He _wouldn’t_. Because weaving together next to fierce warmth was a forge-fire, a _volcano_ , and he wouldn’t leave Alan alone with-

_I never wanted power. Now I have it. How can I get people to stand for themselves when everyone says there has to be a king? And damn it, David, why couldn’t you just_ stay dead? _You’re a bigger asshole than Kouen and Arba put together! I didn’t think anything could be more evil than Arba; but she’s a fanatic, she was flat-out crazy, she just wants the world to die._ _You - you’d make the whole world puppets on a string, and you used Sinbad to do it-!_

Aladdin bit his lip and held on, even as he wanted to cry. Sinbad... Alibaba had seen Sinbad some of the ways he’d seen Ugo. Someone strong. Someone confident. Someone he wanted to be like, and lean on, and _help_ when Sinbad needed that. Because everyone needed help sometimes.

And Sinbad had _needed_ help, so much, and none of them had realized that until it was almost too late.

_And we wouldn’t have known at all, if Alibaba hadn’t... died_....

It’d scarred his friend, inside and out. Made gold eyes so, so much older. And yet he’d still been Alibaba, still brave and kind and dependable, ready to back him and argue with him and mess up his hair over silly stuff.

...And Aladdin had felt so guiltily grateful, because no one else knew what it was like to be a human of Alma Torran, to hold Solomon’s Wisdom, to have existed for thousands of years as a bit of essence and magoi. But Alibaba had been _in the rukh_ , just like he’d been. Fighting to keep himself whole as centuries of knowledge tried to bash their way through him, the world itself desperate to pass on what _someone_ needed to know to save everything that lived. He’d survived it, and he’d _come back_.

_I wasn’t alone anymore_.

And when he’d found out how guilty Aladdin felt, Alibaba had given him the thump of, _you’re being stupid, stop that_.

_“Everybody wants to be understood. You want to feel bad about something, try asking the rukh why I can’t stop making an idiot of myself around Morgiana.”_

Which was Alibaba all over. Scars didn’t matter. Scars meant you’d _survived_.

Only these scars did matter, because with magic working all around it Aladdin could see all those same wounds in Alan’s rukh. Anise’s death, Cassim’s betrayal, being ripped out of his own body, having his soul _torn in half_ so Ugo could knit Aladdin’s sleeping power to all the Djinn through his chosen king....

Oh boy. Now he could see Ugo’s fingerprints all over Alan and Morgan’s souls. Subtle, careful magic; like a dusting of stardust against the brighter glow of their spirits. Yet strong enough to hold two half-souls intact, even as they soared out of the Great Flow into new lives.

_Ugo took care of them when I couldn’t_. Aladdin tried not to sniffle, as the magic wove itself to a close. _I miss him so much_....

A hand fell on his shoulder. Aladdin braced himself, and looked up. Because Alan had every right to be _mad as hell_ , nobody needed to remember a century of being a lost spirit, and as soon as Morgan figured out just what he’d done she was going to _kill_ him-

“You idiot.” Tears streaked Alan’s face; gold eyes were as bright as Aladdin had ever seen them. “Trying to carry everything by yourself. _Again_.”

Strong arms wrapped around both of them. “Like you weren’t,” Morgan hiccupped into their shoulders, her own face wet. _“Boys.”_

_It’s going to be okay_ , Aladdin thought, relief crashing down harder than any magoi drain ever had. _I don’t know how, but_ \- “How? How can you just...?”

“Keep going?” Alan loosened one arm just enough to drag out his headset. “Secret weapon.”

Aladdin blinked, tears still hot as the music seemed to shimmer in his ears, turning the rumble of engines to something new and strange and wonderful.

_Dear God, I was terribly lost  
__When the galaxies crossed_  
_And the sun went dark...._

“You’re never as lost as you think,” Alan said softly. Glanced at Morgan, and grinned even through his tears. “Sometimes you just lose the map.”

Morgan smiled.

That was all he could take. Aladdin threw himself into their arms and let himself cry. Because he didn’t deserve friends like this. Friends who didn’t care about the magi, the heir of Solomon, the lord of the Djinn. Friends who didn’t care if they had magic or not; they’d _find_ a way to save people. And save themselves.

_You saved me. Even when you didn’t know me. Even when you were broken_.

_Now it’s my turn. I’m going to help you heal. Help you fix this..._.

Fix whatever mess Maria was in. _Not_ the whole world. Because the world was too big for anybody, no matter what Solomon and David Jehoahaz Abraham had believed. Aladdin had chosen the one he believed in as king - and Alibaba had never wanted to fix the world. He’d wanted to help others fix _their_ world, one small piece at a time.

_You can walk across the world, if you do it a piece at a time_.

* * *

_He won’t come_. Maria stared blankly into the darkness of her closet of a room; one cot, one sheet, one blanket. _No one will come_.

Almost, she let her eyes slide closed with her tears. Why not? There was nothing to see. Even with the lights on, there would only be a plain tan door, tan walls ribbed like cardboard, and a solid tan ceiling made like the walls.

_...Like being inside a tractor-trailer,_ spun through her fogged thoughts. _This isn’t where I was before_.

She didn’t remember much about before, except that there had been climbing and people she couldn’t get to and _so much fear_.

But this _wasn’t_ the first place she had run from. That - that had to be important. Somehow.

It was so hard to _think_. Her arms felt like lead, and her heart....

There was still a warmth in the cross over her heart. Sometimes Maria thought that was the only thing keeping her from screaming until she couldn’t breathe anymore.

_It’s Them. I ran and I ran and they_ found _me - if they found me they can find the others, I have to do something-!_

Do what? She couldn’t even get off the bed. What did she think she could do? She wasn’t Alan, who could whisper any lock into opening, if he just poked it enough.

_He doesn’t know he has a gift. I’m never going to get to tell him_....

_“Stay alive.”_

Maria flinched, eyes wide, as something glimmered in the dark. That was - the lightflutters - but Señora Anne was _dead_ , she knew it, and who else would help her-

_“Stay alive, kid. Anything’s possible, if you just stay alive.”_

Fingers shaking, ice-cold, Maria gripped the crystal cross. Let the warmth seep in, and prayed.

* * *

“Electrical squids? Seriously?”

“...Chewy.”

“I know there are octopus species that wander out of tidepools, but a squid flailing around on dry land has to be using magoi- Simon, _get back here!_ ”

_Shing_. “Dragons mean we’re going the right way!”

“...We are _so doomed_.”

* * *

Alan drowsed to the sound of airplane engines, Morgan and Aladdin curled against him to nap. Aladdin had spent a lot of energy, and Morgan had decided the best way to come to terms with almost five years of sometimes bloody memories was to let sleep sort things out.

_I’ve got... kind of a lot more to sort out than that_.

Aladdin hadn’t been joking. He knew _a lot_ about magic. Possibly more than anybody else on the planet, even including Ja’far. At least, _old_ magic. The kind that hadn’t been remotely practical for who knew how many thousands of years... but might be possible now.

_Spend a hundred subjective years in the rukh talking to Alma Torran magicians, you learn things_. Alan huddled closer to human warmth, grateful to have a body and a beating heart. So _much_ to remember.

_Wonder if Ithnan was reborn here on Earth? He deserved it, poor guy. Yeah, he did... awful things with Al-Thamen... but the mess David and Solomon stuck him in would have driven_ anybody _crazy_.

And the desperate magician’s soul-brothers had been one hell of a help when Alibaba had been lost and drifting in the rukh. Without the experience of those ancient mages, of those who’d _been_ there, Alan wasn’t sure his past self would have been able to hang together long enough to get back to his body.

_But I did. And... here we are. All of us_. Alan touched the multitool at his throat, feeling the familiar warmth. “I missed you.”

A flicker of startled attention. Not quite words.

“I did,” Alan said quietly. “Mom said every kid had invisible friends, but I was the only one she knew who wanted to put up a _Missing_ poster for them. Maybe I kind of mixed you all up in my head, I didn’t know if I was missing a boy or a girl or whatever, but - I missed you. Enough to keep pushing until I learned how to open doors. _Any_ doors. Because somewhere out there was the right door, and I was damned if it was going to stop me from finding you.”

Wary interest. _Almost_ a reaching out.

“I’m sorry we all got hurt,” Alan said softly. “You took a hell of a chance, and then... then I was scared.” He took a deep breath. “But we’ve got to get past that. Because Maria’s in trouble, and Aladdin and Morgan are counting on us to keep it together.” He grinned a little. “Don’t ask me why, but somehow they got the idea that I’m the guy who makes the plans.”

And that - that was _laughter_ in his head, like a fall of bright sparks.

“So.” Alan shrugged; carefully, so he didn’t jar Morgan’s head from his shoulder. “Think we can work this out? ‘Cause if I’m going to get us all out of this in one piece - I’m going to need your help.”

A soft sigh, and an ancient chuckle. :... _It is good to hear you again, my king_.:

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Galaxies, by Owl City. Oddly fitting for the whole Magi more-than-one-world mess.
> 
> Using crimson to describe the Equip outfit because it’s my best guess for the color based on manga pics I’ve seen, and because the original source of crimson is kermes dye, a traditional royal and noble red.
> 
> Tiburon and Malachy’s arm guards: google Tactical Steel Wire Wrist Support. Those looked very practical for a Fanalis who might be punching someone. Not to mention a swordsman who might be facing sharp objects, as they are supposed to stop knives.
> 
> Laws on brass knuckles in Florida are not exactly clear, but apparently if you have a concealed carry permit you should be okay. Depends on the jurisdiction.
> 
> The ancient mages of Alma Torran in question - based on silhouettes in the recent scanlations (including glasses!) it may have been Wahid and Setta, Ithnan’s foster-brother, who helped Alibaba out. (Meaning my original guess of Ithnan was actually close. Awesome!)


	16. Calling Admiral Ackbar....

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of _course_ it's a trap.

“Okay.” Alan brushed some sleep-grit out of his eyes as he crouched on a warehouse roof before dawn; they’d had time for a nap on the plane before touchdown, but it’d been a long, long night. “Does anybody think that’s _not_ a trap?”

Coiled by him, peering over the perimeter wall toward the suspiciously populated warehouse just across the alley, Morgan gave him a _look_.

And that look was familiar now, he knew it like he did his own heartbeat, and that was awesome and terrifying at once.

_Focus on the awesome,_ Alan told himself. _You can be scared_ after _we get Maria out_.

Because it was awesome. He cared. He’d been hurting so much, Alan hadn’t thought he could ever care again. But here he was, with two he’d trust with his life, heart open and singing. Light and free and... utterly scared stiff.

_Like I’d been all locked up in plate armor, and just - dropped it_ , Alan reflected. _I can move now. But I’m going to have to dodge like crazy_.

“I don’t think it’s Callimachus.” Aladdin held another of Alan’s fiery butterflies in cupped hands, flame-wings beating against his fingers. The bit of shaped fire magoi was way too visible in the dark before dawn, but it was the fastest way any of them could think of to find Maria. They’d just had to fly as fast keeping up, and catch it first. “Ja’far’s talisman would warn us if he were around. And the rukh I’ve asked don’t recognize him. But... well, I know what I see. What do you see?”

Alan nodded toward the metal-shuttered windows, the side door barely visible through the shadows before dawn. “The way the wind makes that shift? Door’s not deadbolted. Nobody in their right mind would leave an alley door like that at night. They’d walk in the next morning to find the place picked clean down to the copper wiring. And the shadows behind the shutters... somebody’s moving around in there. More than just one night watchman.”

“I smell gun oil.” Morgan took a breath. “Computers running. Waiting people. Most of them are confident, or bored. One is afraid. She’s been crying.”

“She’s scared,” Aladdin said softly. “The rukh says she has a little of your fire left. It’s keeping her warm, and that’s good, because....” His lips pressed together, and he stared at the warehouse, determined. “Something’s draining her magoi. She’s awake, she’s alive, but if this keeps up....”

A chill ran all the way down Alan’s spine. “Guns _and_ magoi-users. Great. Just great.”

“What do you think we should do?” Morgan asked quietly. “Hand to hand we can take anyone. Guns change things.”

Wasn’t that the truth.

_We’re losing the shadows, Maria’s in trouble, we_ have _to move fast-_

_And they set it up that way, damn it, take a minute and_ think!

Alan dropped down onto the roof, pressing his fists against his forehead to blot out the world. _What do we know? What do we not know?_ “Aladdin. Do they have anybody besides Maria? Can you tell? Do you know where she is? Exactly?”

Aladdin frowned. “She’s the only bright spot inside. Everything else - the rukh isn’t totally dark, but it’s shadowed.” Blue eyes half-closed, listening. “She’s near the earth; those rukh hear her more. I think she’s... in the middle of the building? We’d know if we let your butterfly find her.”

“But if they’re draining magoi, they might have someone who can see it.” Morgan worked her fingers, ready to punch.

“And there goes our element of surprise,” Alan muttered. _Think. Think! They know about guns, they know about magic_ -

_Wait_.

“They know about magoi,” Alan said slowly, lifting his head as he felt the idea out. “They know about magoi the way it’s used in this world. Slow. Low-powered. Something that can’t do things like, oh, drain a whole school, without a ton of prep work.”

Morgan raised a curious brow. Aladdin’s eyes blinked wide, looking between them.

_Amon?_ Alan asked silently. _What are you willing to do here?_ Because Aladdin was right; forget all the Djinns’ Solomon-blessed hands-off policy. They were _partners_ , Djinn and Metal Vessel User, both trying their best to keep hope alive.

_The only way we’re going to get through this, is together_.

: _My power is yours to command, my king. You have but to ask_.: A huff in his mind, like sparks flying from a forge. : _What lurks within these walls is a blight on lives and souls. Let us end it!_ :

Alan grinned, heart in his throat as if he were about to jump off a cliff. _This is it. This is the way. This is how everybody stays alive_. “What say we go on a rampage?”

* * *

Cold. She was so cold.

_“Hang on, little sis. Help is-”_ A soft chuckle, like the whisper of lightflutters brushing wings together. _“Well. It’s_ here. _”_

Blazing ruby-gold, fiery wings fluttered down through the corrugated steel ceiling as if it wasn’t there.

Maria dragged in a horrified breath, struggling to sit up as fire descended. _No, no, they’ll catch you too, get away-!_

Air hit her like a hammer-blow; metal shipping container shaking as if a dragon had dropped onto the roof above. There was screeching, high and shrill and _hot_ , like someone cutting I-beams down at the shipyard-

Maria stared upward, almost not feeling warmth pour through her like sunshine, making the weights on her wrists light as feathers. _The ceiling!_

Tan steel separated in a molten arc, three-quarters of a circle bending down as a pale fist _punched_.

“Maria!”

Smoke whooshed in with her name, firelight painting faces and hair red and shadowed gold. The lightflutters were blazing bright, swarming them all.

_Fire! Freedom! Run!_

A fierce-eyed girl leapt down, showing empty hands. “We’re friends! We’re getting you out of here.”

_Friends?_

The girl seized her, and _jumped_.

_Like the sandals of the gods!_

They soared through cut steel, past a black blade that cast flames down into her prison. More fire growled in the midst of the echoing open building that had surrounded her prison, sparking yells and screams from running men as they careened off other trailers that had walled in her own. The stench of burning shingles made Maria choke, before their arc took them up through the warehouse roof into the white of dawn-

_Thump_.

Cloth. She was on soft, wind-rippled cloth. With a sky-haired boy the lightflutters knew.

_Guys, guys!_ some were giggling. _Come watch this!_

Maria blinked, jaw dropping as happy lightflutters swarmed the boy. _A magician!_

“Maria, right?” His smile was warm and determined. “Hold on, we’re getting out of here as soon as-”

Another thump; with a frightful clink of chains, and a ring of steel clashing on something that _wasn’t_. “That should keep them busy,” a familiar voice panted. “Let’s go!”

Wind whipped hair in Maria’s face, and she hung on for dear life.

* * *

“The Fog Troupe strikes again!”

Cackling, Cassim floated through the billows of rukh surging in the warehouse, watching modern slavers run around a pile of burning roof like a bunch of chickens with their heads cut off. Wimps. It was just a little fire. And Alan had been way too careful to make sure no one got burned unless they were really stupid.

Cassim was definitely hoping for stupid.

Then again, given Alan had had to be careful to make sure Maria came out in one piece, Cassim could live with his brother’s soft heart. This time.

“Not bad, little bro,” Cassim muttered, gazing at the wide hole above where Alan had used Amon’s Royal Sword to cookie-cutter the roof. “Not bad at all.”

Though given how many thieving raids he’d run, Cassim had to admit he was less impressed by rampant destruction than by the _plan_.

_Cut through the roof. Have the magi hold it while you peek in at the bad guys. Make sure your little slice is good and burning, then let the magi use one fist of Gravity Magic to slam it down sideways, away from Maria, where every last bad guy has to pin their eyes to a whole lot of fire. Drop in, cut the ceiling of that metal box they’re keeping Maria in, have the Fanalis grab her, jump out yourself. Animated magoi-draining chains, sure, surprise; but they went after the guy with Amon’s Sword, so... heh. Leave a fiery distraction behind - so they have to waste time figuring out their hostage really isn’t there anymore, and so nothing Maria left can be used to track her. Plus, it’s inside steel, so that fire won’t spread, and you can make it big and flashy and_ terrifying.

Gone in thirty heartbeats. Damn, his little brother was still good.

Ghostly fingers curled into a fist, as Cassim smiled, wry and bittersweet. Everyone in the Fog Troupe had known who was the _real_ mastermind of their raids. The good ones, where the Troupe got away with medicine, and enough food for everyone to sleep, and no one got killed. Everyone knew. Except Alibaba.

_I made damn sure he didn’t know_.

Because he’d been a jealous idiot, and he’d hated Alibaba for things... well, things Alibaba couldn’t have done anything about, he knew now. Back then, he’d been too blinded by his own pain at Miriam’s death and seeing his too-pure friend all dressed up like a noble to _think_.

_He had to dig a_ tunnel _to get out of the castle. He was just as stuck as anybody in the slums. Just... stuck with the king, not with the plague_.

But stuck was stuck, and if he’d been _thinking_ , he would have realized Alibaba was crying inside as much as he was. Because finally finding out what had happened to Miriam had eaten at his brother like acid, to the point Alibaba had been willing to put a whole Djinn’s power behind a rebellion-

_Over now_ , Cassim thought firmly, seeing the rukh shade darker around him. _We’re going to be okay now. Maria’s going to live. And these guys?_

As the first sirens started howling in the distance, one of the slavers glanced past the flames. Stared at him, eyes slowly widening.

Smirking, Cassim flashed him Balbadd’s rudest back alley gesture. And faded back into the rukh, still cackling.

_You guys are_ dead. _You just don’t know it yet_.

* * *

“Hold still,” Aladdin told Maria, as he and Morgan held her arms steady. The cloth-over-steel bracelets might look harmless to ordinary eyes, but he could see the sickly purple energy-flux as it sucked life right out of her. Like the magoi that had flowed through that trapping chain that’d whipped up the side of the metal trailer after them, before Alan had chopped it into motionless half-links of steel. Only that chain had never gotten a good grip on any of them.

_That chain_ , Aladdin thought with a shiver. He was pretty sure the chain-bits he’d kept to poke were safe enough; their magoi had been dispersed, only a few shreds clinging to steel after Amon had been through. But the rukh around them was so terribly sad, shivering with echoes of pain and despair. _There were a_ dozen _chains down there. How could anyone make that?_ Why _would anyone make that?_

A trap. For people with magoi. And these bracelets, with their fine purple threads of magoi weaving under Maria’s skin, like parasitic roots - oh yeah. Aladdin had a bad feeling he knew what they were. “It’s going to be okay. We’re going to get these off you.”

“I have tried... everything,” the dark-haired girl managed. “Without the key....” She blinked again, as if she wasn’t quite sure she could believe her eyes. _“Xibal?”_

“I’m here, _Alixel_.” Alan drew Amon’s blade across the first binding, delicate as if he meant to cut just the topmost layer of a scroll.

Cotton and steel parted like water, falling to the roof with a dull clunk.

“Hang on, just one more second....” Alan’s second stroke was swifter, more confident. The second bracelet clinked away, and Alan let out a _phew_ Aladdin could feel in his own lungs. “Good. Aladdin, can you zap them? Lightning, melt them, really don’t care....”

“They could be evidence,” Morgan pointed out, pointing her phone at cut metal and pushing a button.

“They could also be laced with some kind of tracker. Magic or tech.” Alan glared at the sliced bracelets. “Anyone smart enough to set up bait, might be smart enough to realize it might _get away_.”

“Ah.” Morgan nodded, face as solemn as Malachy’s about to mangle someone. “It’s the only explanation for the ease of our escape.”

Alan blinked at her. Stifled a snicker, red-faced. “Easy? You call that easy?”

Applying some concentrated Heat Magic to melt mind-bending steel into a pair of unrecognizable lumps, Aladdin squinted at both of them. “ _What_ are you two talking about?”

_“Star Wars!”_

And now _Maria_ was eyeing him oddly, even through her exhaustion. “You do not know Star Wars?”

“We’ll have a marathon!” Alan pumped a fist in the air. “Start with the classics. What do you think, Morgan - is he Han or Luke?”

“More like Obi-Wan,” Morgan observed. “ _You’re_ Han.”

“Scruffy-looking?” Alan gave her some of the best puppy eyes Aladdin had seen yet. “Me?”

“I think I’d be T’ra Saa,” Morgan mused. “I like her.”

“Oh, well if we’re going to go for the graphic novels....” Alan trailed off as Maria covered her mouth with her hand. “Are you okay? Did they hurt you? I swear, if you need a doctor we’re going straight to one, and don’t worry about the _ak’al-ab’_ , if we have to drag you out past the cops we _will_ -”

_“You came!”_

Not English, Aladdin realized. One of the other languages the rukh had let him learn from Alan. The really odd one; Spanish and English shared common roots at the core of them, but K’iche’ was like a whole other _world_.

_“You came, they said no one would come - they made me leave the lure for you! The bracelets - they tell you to do something and it’s so hard to do anything else, ‘Do what you would do to bring the fire here’.... I couldn’t fight, I couldn’t scream, they wanted me to tell them where the others were and I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t, but if they found me they know, they have to know-!”_

Alan wrapped her in a hug.

Shuddering, Maria buried her face in his shoulder. _“How can you... they made me trap you, betray you-!”_

_“Calm, Princess,”_ Alan said softly. _“Be calm; as the sea, and the great expanse of the sky. There is life and light here.”_ He took a breath, and switched back to English. “Sorry to rain on the angst, little sis. But we knew it was a trap.”

Maria stiffened.

“He’s right.” Aladdin kept his tone light, gentle. It wasn’t easy. Too many people had tried to use his friends already. But that was the traffickers’ fault, not Maria’s. “You’re not the first person who’s been used to try and trap us.” He scratched at the base of his braid, getting out a few itchy flecks of sliced shingles. “We’re kind of good at this by now.”

“Better than Jedi.” Morgan smiled fiercely. “They spring traps. We _break_ them.”

_I just hope we broke it enough_ , Aladdin thought. _They’re traffickers, they’re slavers - and slavery’s supposed to be_ illegal _here. And all we did was scare them. Maybe we should have done more._

Maybe. But this wasn’t Sindria. They weren’t thought of as adults here, capable of defending themselves, even with lethal force. Killing people could make a lot of trouble they really didn’t need.

And Alibaba - and Alan - had always hated killing.

_The Djinn were meant to protect life. He_ is _a Djinn Warrior. He just doesn’t know it yet. I need to get him and Amon to talk!_

“Anyway.” Alan touched the side of Maria’s face, just enough so she had to look at him. “You said _they_ made you leave the message to get me back here. Who’s they? Tall, dark, grumpy attitude problem-”

“It’s not Callimachus,” Aladdin chorused with Morgan.

Alan eyed the both of them, and waved a hand between them. “Eeinie, meenie, minie-”

Aladdin tilted his head, inviting Morgan to go first.

“His scent wasn’t there,” Morgan said firmly. “Phaenomena’s wasn’t, either. Do you think they’d stay away from their own trap?”

“No, but - hiring thugs. Is a thing,” Alan pointed out. “Especially in Boston. Remind me to fill you in on the Irish and Russian mobs around here.”

“Maybe they could have hired somebody to set this up,” Aladdin admitted, “but all the time I was with them, they didn’t _have_ anyone else. Phaenomena’s proud of how she can use spirits to fight. I don’t think she’d trust anybody as bad at ambushes as those guys were. And these chains aren’t like Callimachus’.” Aladdin eyed the melted steel, and shuddered a little. “His chains hurt. These... they could kill someone.”

Morgan’s brows scrunched down, like a lion cub debating whether to pounce. “Fomoire chains kill. That’s what they do.”

“I believe you,” Aladdin nodded. He was a Magi, after all. Something that drained off enough magoi to kill a Fanalis would just make him dizzy. “But these? These are _worse_.”

“Oh great,” Alan said numbly. “Someone worse. Who knows magic. Who’s got a ton of thugs for backup, not just one lethal martial artist. Who drains kids with-” He cut himself off, looking pale.

Morgan’s glance flicked between them. She drew a breath between parted lips, and met Maria’s shy gaze. “Are these the people you got away from before? That you rescued your people from?”

Dark eyes skittered away, and Maria shivered.

“Sounds like a yes to me,” Alan muttered. “But if there’s a bunch of magic-users this nasty in Boston, why’d it take this long for them to find-” He stopped. Bit back what Aladdin was sure was a caravan swear. “Bring the fire here? What fire?”

Maria’s hand twitched. It didn’t lift toward her cross, but Aladdin could hear the rukh in it sing with her shift of attention.

“...This is my fault.” Alan thumped his head against his knuckles, shoulders slumped. “I thought you’d get the butterfly. I never thought... idiot, of course there are other magicians, of _course_ they’d be interested in-”

“You couldn’t know,” Morgan cut him off. “Magicians teach magicians. If Maria wasn’t being taught - why would you think there were any magicians here? Of course you thought it was safe for Aladdin to send a message.”

_But you know I didn’t send_ \- Aladdin took a deep breath, and nodded. “Right. I thought it’d be fine.”

Alan blinked at both of them. But said nothing, lips thinned.

_He gets it,_ Aladdin thought, relieved. _Thanks, Morgan. Let’s not mention Amon if we don’t have to_.  

Because suddenly this mess made way too much sense. It didn’t look like Callimachus was involved? No wonder; he probably _wasn’t_. These slavers just wanted the same thing.

_A Djinn’s power_.

Power they couldn’t get without taking Alan along with it. Which wouldn’t slow down slavers for a heartbeat.

_They might not even know they’re after Alan_ , Aladdin reflected. _Just the fire_.

He’d seen magical mind control in the past. Between Belial and Al-Thamen and _Sinbad_ , ow, they all had. It could get anything out of your head that wasn’t protected by other spells - but it _couldn’t_ drag out information a victim didn’t already know.

“I hope we swatted everything in those cuffs,” Alan said grimly. Managed a smile, and rested a hand on Maria’s arm. “You okay? Morgan’s got a first-aid box if you need it. And a shelter. We could all do with a few hours’ sleep-”

“No sleep!” Maria was shaking, voice a choked-off whisper. “If we sleep they will find, they will take us, hurt us-!”

“First they’d have to get past a whole fire station.” Alan pointed down toward the roof. “Mom did a few stories on the guys here. They’re awesome.”

Morgan straightened. “Do you think they’d help us?”

“They might,” Alan said judiciously, gently prying Maria off so he could stand, “but mostly I think they won’t turn us in, if they find us.” Rolling his shoulders to get a kink or two out, he gave them all a wink. “If I still know how to tickle the lock here, we can slip in right under their bunks and crash.”

Maria hugged herself tightly. “But the coyotes-”

“Are not going to want to break into a _firehouse_ ,” Alan said firmly. “People who set traps usually don’t go for search-and-destroy when the trap breaks. They sit and scheme and make a new one. You need food. We all need _sleep_. At least a nap. And... I need to make a new plan.” He shrugged, sheepish. “I thought we could sneak in, grab you, hide out until dark, then get on another plane. But I was planning for regular mundane evil slavers, not evil magicians. If you think they can track us, then we’ll have to get moving faster. But those damn bracelets almost sucked you dry. _You need rest_. Or even calling up a spark might kill you.”

“He’s right,” Aladdin said soberly, holding Maria’s gaze. “I’m not a Life Mage. I can heal a little, but they _hurt_ you.”

“We can trade off watches,” Morgan stated. “I know their scents. Alan and Aladdin can sense them... other ways.” She straightened. “We’re hiding for _them_ , not us. If they find us, they will be _very sorry_.”  

“And this place has all kinds of traces of fire magoi,” Aladdin added. “It’ll be harder to find us here.”

Maria darted her gaze away from his, looking between them all in the kind of bewilderment Aladdin had last seen on Tiburon when he’d first dropped into Baal’s dungeon. She _wanted_ to believe, but.... “Who _are_ you?” She blinked at Alan, and finally blanched. “What did you do to your hair?”

“Ah.” Alan shrugged, already at work on the lock. “That’s kind of a long story....”

Aladdin grinned, remembering some of the folklore books on Alan’s shelves. “He met a fire spirit, and it liked him.”

“Oh.” Maria looked relieved, if startled. Took a deep breath, and shook a fist at Alan. “Why did you not _say_ so!”

“How am I supposed to say something like that?” Alan protested, lock giving way with a _click_.

“It helps when you can demonstrate the impossible.” Morgan smiled. “So where did you want us to hide?”

* * *

“Damndest thing I ever saw.” Fire Marshal Bradley chewed on the cap of his pen, scowling at still-smoldering wreckage. “You asked around for weird, Agent Dominguez. Have you ever seen anything like this?”

Standing in the smoky middle of what had been a moderately large warehouse, staring up at the almost-circular hole in the roof, Domingo had to shake his head. He’d asked friends and contacts in various agencies to report anything that seemed strange; he might not believe in magic, but the people he was chasing apparently did, so it was worth getting news of anything out of the ordinary. “What do you think caused the blaze?”

“Damned if I know. It doesn’t make any _sense_.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Domingo said, half to himself. Tipped-over chairs. A few desks hastily cleared of papers. Power strips and modem cords dangling soaked and useless on the floor, whatever computers had been attached obviously long gone. Odd bits of steel chain scattered here and there, like someone had gone to work with a demented bolt-cutter. Half a dozen shipping containers turned mini-cells with cots and locked doors scattered through the open space, all apparently empty. Except for one near the center which was empty of everything but ashes. “What did they use, a welding torch?”

Bradley uttered a bark of laughter. “You don’t know fire, do you?”

“Outside of backyard barbeque, no,” Domingo admitted. This was a crime scene; and very possibly linked to his investigation, given those trailers. Better to admit ignorance than miss a potential clue.

“That?” The fire marshal pointed up at the gaping hole in the ash-strewn container. “You might have done that with a torch. Maybe. Witnesses we have from the street outside say the fires just went _whoosh_ , but you know witnesses.”

Yes, Domingo definitely did. Counting on civilian witnesses for time, duration, direction, or even number of explosive events was like trying to hold sand.

“But that?” Bradley stared up at the roof, and shook his head. “I don’t know anything that could do that. Outside of a bunch of drunk Special Forces guys with detcord and a laser beam.” He bent down to touch a piece of warped roof rafter. “Look at this. Steel, and it’s not just melted. It’s _cut_.”

“Like a hot knife through butter,” Domingo muttered, eyeing the ripple in cooled steel. Shook his head, and took a step back to glance at the hole in the roof again-

_Wait a minute_.

The hole in the roof was right over the trashed trailer. The smoldering debris _wasn’t_.

Incredulous, Domingo lifted a hand. Traced a definite angle, between the center of the hole and the center of the smoking pile.

“Like I said.” The fire marshal’s voice was heavy with irony. “You asked for weird. This is it.”

So he had. “What do you think-”

“Dominguez! There you are!”

Domingo blew out a breath, stirring wet ash, and mentally counted to ten as a taller, leaner blond with the first touches of distinguished gray at his temples waved at him from outside the scene tape. One of the definite drawbacks about moving to Boston had been the partner the Bureau had saddled him with. On the surface, Floyd Biegen was patient, polite, and able to charm unwitting suspects into confessing to anything from mail fraud to creating shiploads of child pornography. An excellent investigator, three years his senior in the agency, well tuned in to the flow of gangs and mobs on the street and in the boardrooms. His superiors expected him to learn a lot from the man.

_Better to say Ernesto wants me to learn from him_. Years of practice let Domingo control his reflexive grimace at the thought of his older cousin. There were reasons he preferred being FBI, not Homeland Security. Let Ernesto worry about Big Pictures and global politics. Domingo had a wife, and a son, and a node theory model for zapping criminal networks that actually let him do some good when it came to malice on a city or even statewide scale. The whole world? That was a bit much.

But his superiors in the Illinois office had wanted to trade _expertise_ with Boston. Or so they claimed. And he was their preferred pick to go.

_Damn it. Just when Sarah’s catering was getting somewhere_....

Though Sarah had known when she married him that his job might entail sudden moves. That was why she’d picked a portable business... well, for degrees of portable. It’d take time to build up customers and suppliers again-

_Focus,_ Domingo told himself, tasting ash and tar on the breeze. _You don’t have to like the situation. You just have to work with it_.

So far, what Domingo had learned in Boston was that the local agents under SAC Haughn had a good handle on most crime, an intense and sincere dislike for anyone who broke as many rules of polite society as the Ryans had, and a serious human trafficking problem. And competent or not, Biegen’s smile set his teeth on edge. More than that, Sarah didn’t like him.

He _trusted_ his wife. If she wouldn’t leave their son alone in the room with a man... then she wasn’t sure Matt was safe.

_If only I had a reason!_

But he didn’t yet. So he planned to treat Biegen as any other coworker. Calmly, politely, and _professionally_.

And if he hadn’t shared absolutely everything in his notes on the Guatemalan traffickers with Biegen... well, who would take information gathered from a fifteen-year-old as serious investigative leads?

Domingo shrugged, and put on a professional smile. “Interesting start to the morning?”

“A bit too interesting.” Biegen ducked under the tape, walking in with a frown at damp puddles left from the firemen’s efforts. “Why would you think this is part of our investigation... oh.”

“Oh, indeed,” Domingo agreed, looking over the container-cells. “Our information suggested these people were organized, but this is - more than I expected.”

In more ways than one. He’d never seen Biegen’s eyes widen quite that way before. Certainly, the implications were stomach-churning; that someone had put together an effective way to just box and ship people like furniture, never mind that furniture wouldn’t die from overheating....

But Biegen had paled when he looked into the ash-strewn container. Why?

“Have you found any remains?” Biegen snapped out.

Domingo traded a glance with Bradley. He might not be an expert on fire, but Domingo was fairly certain their nose would have told them if a person had burned.

“We haven’t,” Marshal Bradley said bluntly. Waved toward the ashes. “Looks like all that was in there was charred cotton and a metal frame. Maybe a cot like the others, hard to be sure. Why?”

“It’s the only one that burned,” Floyd shrugged, some of the color coming back into his face. “Obviously, they must have been concealing some kind of evidence.”

“Obviously,” Domingo echoed. Because that was a possible explanation. If whoever had been here had realized their cover was spectacularly blown, tossing anything incriminating into a fire would have been a smart move.

Except that while he might not know fire Domingo definitely knew toolmarks. The ones on the charred container door indicated Bradley’s people had pried it open, while the dent in what had been cut from the ceiling implied someone had broken _into_ the container that way. Somehow. None of which fit with their suspects heaving incriminating evidence in to burn.

_Not to mention the roof_. Domingo glanced at that gaping hole again, trying to wrap his mind around the casual use of enough explosives to take part of a building down. _What happened here?_ “Why aren’t there any bodies?”

“Agent?” Bradley frowned.

“This wasn’t an accident.” Domingo rapped his knuckles against the door; yes, it was as solid steel as it looked. “They were attacked. Not by anyone official; we would have had arrests. So why isn’t anyone dead?”

“Well, you know gangs,” Biegen shrugged. “Cowards, most of them. They’ll toss around bullets like candy, but when it comes to fire... they probably ran.”

Also possible. But it just didn’t feel as if it fit-

Bradley’s cell phone rang. With a grimace, he stepped away and opened it. “Marshal Bradley. Wait, wait - slow down, ma’am. You saw _what?_ ”

* * *

Ja’far’s arm slung over one shoulder, Tiburon ran for the nearest sheltering alley. “Did you have to set it on fire?”

“I didn’t mean to!” Simon defended himself, taking the magician’s other arm as they kept running. “Stupid place to put a transformer anyway....”

He really hadn’t meant to. It was just, lightning Djinn plus the pure startled reflex of his cutlass being so much _more_ plus being _dropped out of the sky_ -

He’d yelped. And almost reflexively flung some magoi toward the apparent enemy.

Apparently, with a Djinn, a little went a long way. The lightning strike had been _awesome_.

_Too bad we had to run rather than film it_.

But they did. None of them had come out of the dungeon with clothes intact, but Tiburon’s rags were the worst, and some of the ladies back on the street-corner had been licking their lips in a way that put all Simon’s Hollywood-trained hackles up. It was fight or flee, and given how Ja’far had all but passed out, running had seemed the saner option. Though how long they could keep running, Simon wasn’t sure. For such a slight-looking frame, Ja’far’s muscle made him surprisingly heavy-

Malachy’s frustrated breath was all the warning Simon had, before fiercely strong arms scooped up the lot of them like so many unwieldy bags of feathers.

_...This is_ awesome.

Wind blurred past Simon’s eyelashes as Malachy sprinted three blocks, changing direction with each street. It wasn’t exactly comfortable, being hefted in one bony, clinking lump with sacks, a swearing swordmaster, and a semiconscious magician, but the view would have to be filmed to be believed.

_Hollywood werewolves, eat your heart out_ , Simon smirked. _We could definitely do a new twist on Van Helsing... save that thought for later, he’s slowing down_. “What is it?”

Dropping to a walk, Malachy lowered the pair of them, and slung Ja’far back over his shoulders like a fainting bride. “Where should we go?”

Tiburon blanched, and tried to wrap a few tatters of a shirt around his midsection. “Someplace we can change!”

“Good plan,” Simon decided. Wet a finger, and felt the wind. “That way.”

Twin stares. Even Ja’far roused himself enough to squint Simon’s direction.

“What?” Simon said blithely. “End up in the bad parts of enough towns, they all look the same eventually. And with those ladies back there, there has to be a no-tell motel on this street _somewhere_.”

Though hopefully Baal had been not only astoundingly helpful but also on-target, and they really were in Boston. Getting here fast and without bothering airport security with swords had been a good idea. Getting here without anything more than what they’d packed into the dungeon, given all of them had anticipated being able to go home long enough to grab a change of clothes....

Well. Simon was hoping they were in Boston. Cab fare if they weren’t was going to be highway robbery.

“He has a point,” Tiburon sighed. Glanced at Malachy’s feet, then at the various litter on asphalt and concrete sidewalks. “Watch your step. I doubt the locals are friendly.”

Half a block, and they were blithely turning into a shadowed doorway. Well, he was. His friends were giving him _looks_.

Simon had to wince, and grin at himself as he held the door. “Did I mention some directors have odd ideas about getting access to dressing room space?” And when the local hookers took pity on you because _they_ had more privacy - he’d never worked with that director again.

“Never going to Hollywood,” Malachy declared, following.

The dreadlocked man behind the counter didn’t even look up as he shoved over the register. “Fifty surcharge for kink.”

Simon blinked. That was a bit steep. Granted, the ladies outside probably split part of their take with the man to get a safe bed, but still-

“Put me down,” Ja’far snarled. “I haven’t stabbed anyone human all day, and this seems like an _excellent_ place to start.”

That got their would-be extortionist to look up. And up... and then not so far up, as Malachy calmly raised the man to his eye level.

“We need a quiet room with a door that shuts for about fifteen minutes,” Simon said matter-of-factly, stepping into Dreadlocks’ line of sight so he could get full benefit of the various rips, gashes, and bloodstains. “As you can see, we had a bit of a mishap getting here. And you do not want to know what the airline did with our luggage.” He smiled at the man; bright, but sharp with just the slightest edge of menace. “It’s hard to do proper location scouting when our good officers of the law are nosing about wondering if you’re part of their latest problem. So! Which room would be good?”

“You’re a movie crew?” Dreadlocks squeaked.

“Of course.” Tiburon’s grin was wide and white, as he tapped the well-used sword at his side. “You didn’t think these were real. Did you. That would be _illegal_.”

A gulp. “...Room 213.”

Malachy put him down, and nodded gravely. “Thank you.”

Simon signed off on the register with a flourish, and turned it back towards Dreadlocks. “Don’t worry, we won’t be long.”

“Okay, okay-” Dreadlocks’ gaze fell on the signature. “Cavins? Sinbad? _Cloud of the Kraken? The Djinn’s Wish? The Assassin’s Curse?_ ”

Simon grinned at him, honestly delighted. “It’s wonderful to find fans in the oddest places-”

“You’ve got to settle this for me!” Dreadlocks was already punching up a message on his cell phone. “That hottie Djinn in the seraglio scene, the one with the-” His hands swooped a suggestive curve.

“Oh, _that_ one.” Simon leaned in confidentially. “The only thing that wasn’t real, was the blue body paint.”

“...Really?” There were stars in man’s eyes, and a kind of lustful innocence that took at least five years off him.

“Really,” Simon nodded. “Lovely woman. A little on the shrill side,” he fluttered a hand by his ear, “but she’s very fond of cats. Sponsors shelters, and at least one vet who treats street pets....”

_Here_. It was a certainty in the wind; almost a whisper in his ear, at the bravely polished nametag _Chamain_ on a mended shirt, and the open interest in a face most of the world had passed by. _There’s a current you can grab, right here_.

“To be honest,” Simon said thoughtfully, “we’re only partly up here for location scouting. A young friend of ours is in trouble, and we need to help him get home safely.”

“Simon!” Ja’far hissed.

“Hush. I’m being high-handed and arrogant,” Simon smirked. “He’s in trouble, possibly lethal trouble, and if I have to take this town apart brick by brick to get him out of it - well, someone should have done that years ago.”

Malachy smiled. Tiburon started whistling innocently.

Simon looked Chamain in the eye. “Do you know Alan Ryans?”

“Anne’s kid?” The man blurted out. “Sure, everybody-” His jaw almost snapped shut. “How do you know him?”

Simon smiled. “I’m his principal.”

Chamain blinked, glassy-eyed. “...Prove it.”

“Not sure how I could,” Simon admitted. “He’s here with my cousin Aladdin, and Malachy’s niece Morgan. He speaks Guatemalan Spanish and K’iche’. He’d rather run than fight, he’s very good at both, and he said he helped investigate an exploding landfill that he still hasn’t told his father about.” Simon leaned back a little, weighing the man in his gaze. “And I might as well take all the locks off my school doors, because he’ll only stay inside them if he wants to.”

“Man, you do know him.” Gold gleamed in a suddenly sheepish smile. “He okay? People heard the wildest stuff! Car crash, white slave ring, Ebola....”

“He was okay last night,” Tiburon put in. “But apparently there really is a slave ring. And he’s trying to rescue someone.”

Silence. Chamain chewed the corner of his lip.

“And you don’t seem surprised,” Simon observed, half to himself. “I have to get him to sit down and tell me what he and Anne have been _doing_ all these years.”

Chamain’s eyes bugged. “Wha- you mean he’s _yours?_ ”

_Oops_. “I honestly wish he were,” Simon said frankly, seeing the visions of tabloid gossip dancing around the desk clerk’s head. “At this rate I may end up adopting him just for the sheer mayhem. But no, I’m just his principal. And his friend’s cousin. We’re worried about them.”

The lip was chewed a little more. “I could make some calls,” Chamain admitted.

“We’d all appreciate that,” Tiburon nodded, menace gone from his gaze as if it’d never been. Clapped a hand on Malachy’s shoulder. “Him especially. If they were just kicking up their heels hitchhiking, I’d pit those three up against anything up to and including an earthquake. But teenagers trying to pull a little girl out of danger - well. You can imagine.”

From Chamain’s nod as he handed over the key, he could. “Stay cool, man. Your niece’ll be A-okay. A Ryans never left anybody twisting in the wind, ever.”

Simon waited until they were all behind the closed door to whistle. “Well, that was interesting.”

“Alibaba the Wonder.” Ja’far claimed the lone chair in the postage stamp of a room, straddling it backward, eyes shadowed with weariness. “Al-Thamen targeted him because they wanted Aladdin. The fourth magi, keeper of Solomon’s Wisdom, heir of Alma Torran, and lord of all Djinn. It took them a while to realize Alibaba was the dangerous one.”

“Dangerous?” Simon said skeptically. “Alan?”

“Oh yes,” Tiburon murmured. “Even now. Dangerous as the air you breathe; that first soft breath before the hurricane.”

And lord, but something leapt in Simon’s heart at _hurricane_ , fierce and wild as the joy he’d felt knowing Hancock was really going to work. The thought of raging storms, wind and rain and lightning.... _Is that you?_

: _In part_ ,: Baal rumbled in his mind. : _But you were born to the sea, in that life. You have always loved it, from sun-glittering calm to fiercest storm. That a hurricane would also hold enough lightning magoi that we might play for hours... yes, we both did love that_.:

Play. All the power of a Djinn, and his past self had played with it?

: _And why should you not?_ : Baal said dryly. : _Do not the great cats play as cubs, to learn the limits of their strength? Do not Fanalis play and spar, so they know the difference between a blow to down an opponent and one to kill him? We are meant to preserve life, and we cannot if we have not practiced enough to know how gentle we can be_.: A thunderous chuckle. : _And as you saw with Amon, merely because we are Djinn, does not mean we do not like to show off_.:

Simon had to grin at that, recalling his daring words to the dungeon at large after they’d landed on Baal’s beach.

“We’re coming for real this time,” he’d addressed empty air, confident the Djinn would hear them. “Someone Alan cares about is in danger, and Aladdin and Morgan have slipped off with him to go do something about it. We’ll tell you the details as we go. It’s a trap. They know it’s a trap, and they went anyway, because Alan’s father couldn’t get past, _oh hi I’ve kidnapped you,_ to tell him, _your mother was murdered, and if you go back they’ll target you too_.” Simon had taken a deep breath, and shaken sea-spray out of his hair. “This isn’t the world Aladdin knew. I can think of half a dozen ways to pin down and kill a magi or a fire-user. And if I can, I’m sure Callimachus has. I know those kids have thought about it; they’re not stupid. But there’s something else up there in Boston that we don’t know about, and that means they’re in trouble.” He’d shrugged. “Yet if Callimachus is ready for fire... he may not be ready for lightning.”

The air stilled around them. Even the waves were hushed.

“That doesn’t mean you go easy on us,” Simon said gravely. “Don’t you dare. Ja’far’s told me the stories. If one of us is going to be granted your power, we need to earn it.” He paused, and winked. “Besides. This is where you get to show off.”

At the top of the beach, the dungeon door opened.

The fight through the traps and tunnels had taken everything Simon had thought they’d had, and more. By the time the last whale-sized dragon had crumbled to rocky dust, leaving them the final key to the treasure room, he’d been near shaking with exhaustion. He’d acted through whole movie sieges and not been this drained.

_Those were movies. This is real. In a moment, we’ll step into_ -

An echoing, empty room.

Dazed, Simon staggered in, leading the others by sheer, stubborn nerve. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. The treasure room should light, gold should gleam, and Baal should appear in lightning and glory to choose a king. Not this empty, dusty silence.

“Huh.” Tiburon had limped up next to him, as Malachy and Ja’far leaned on each other. “This isn’t right.”

“No,” Simon said quietly. “We’ve failed.” _No. Be true to them_. “I’ve failed,” he admitted, no matter how much it hurt. “Our students are depending on us, and... damn it, this was so much _fun_.” Testing all their skills and ingenuity to the limit, knowing in his bones he could trust the men he was fighting beside - if he’d won nothing else from the dungeon, that was a treasure beyond price.

_But that’s not what we came for_.

“If I’d come for myself I wouldn’t mind,” Simon went on. “What we just went through, call me crazy-”

Malachy snorted. Ja’far sighed. Tiburon chuckled.

“All right, I am crazy,” Simon smirked back at them. “But that was... beyond incredible. If I could do it again, I would. Anyone who’s set up that much danger and daring, and still made it something you can survive if you just don’t _quit_ \- I want to earn his contract. Not for the power. For the imagination. But we were doing this because those three are in danger, they need us, and the more time we spend here the longer they have to get into trouble even we can’t drag them out of-”

_Time. That’s it_.

Exhausted or not, Simon raised his head. “Right. Let’s head back to the beach. We’ll do it again.”

“Again.” Ja’far sounded tired, but not surprised.

“Djinn can manipulate time inside the dungeons,” Simon reminded him. “Baal knows we’re doing this for the kids, and he’s been more than decent about letting people retreat and regroup. I’m going to bet he’ll weight time in our favor until we get it right.”

Malachy’s eyes bored into his. “How much are you betting?”

_Niece and foster-daughter in peril, to say nothing of her friends. If I were him, I’d be tempted to tear me apart_. “Richard said it’d take him three hours to arrange a plane,” Simon reflected. “By my count, based on past runs... we’ve probably used an hour and a half of that. Two more runs. If we can’t do it in that time - then we just go. We may not be Djinn, but I’d bet we can put a dent in Callimachus anyway-”

The room blazed, gold and jewel-lit.

“Who would hold my power must first show his determination.” Horns, scales, wings like a folded cloak; Baal loomed over them like a dragon eyeing new jewels for his hoard. “Simon Cavins. I would look on you.”

Part of his mind was yammering about _claws_ , and _huge_ , and _running might be good_. Simon told that cautious corner to stuff it, and held still as Baal shrank enough to stroke a giant hand over his head.

...Even if part of that holding still was his knees trembling too much to run.

“You are here, and whole,” Baal had mused then, in a quiet voice that still shook the room. “It will be good to fight at Amon’s side again.”

_Again?_

The world hadn’t - quite - whited out. But he’d been holding lightning, sparks dancing over his cutlass to form a familiar Seal. And then the lightning had struck inside him, digging into heart and mind and soul, deeper than anyone had ever known him, deeper than Simon knew himself-

: _I am Baal, the Djinn of Wrath and Heroes. You are my king_.:

It was as if he’d spent his life in chains, only to have them shatter away. Anything was possible now.

: _Come, my king. We defeated Al-Thamen to win freedom for our people. We shall not let such lesser foes take it from them!_ :

The world-gate had opened, and... they’d been falling. Not back to Hancock. Across the world, night arcing under them, a dark coast lit by city lights like stars. Boston.

...Which was certainly easier to deal with than trying to get swords past airport security, Simon reflected now, breathing in the stale smoke of the hotel room. But how on earth were they going to explain this to Richard?

_Not that I feel like explaining_ anything _to Richard_ , Simon thought dryly. _We’d better give him a call, though. We’re here, yes - but we’re going to need a way_ back.

Though at the moment he was more concerned with the present danger. _You really think these are lesser foes, Baal? Al-Thamen didn’t have guns_ -

: _Al-Thamen did not_ need _guns. They spread hatred and despair. Where their plots worked, brother turned against brother, country against country, until all the world screamed in agony_ ,: Baal rumbled. : _Even with all our power - even with seven Djinn at your command, my king! - we could not destroy them. That took_ hope. _Amon’s chosen blazes with that hope, and the will to live. It was enough to reach even you in your direst need_....:

“Oh no you don’t,” Simon muttered, gripping the hilt at his side. “I’ve had enough of half-answers.” He pointed at Ja’far. “Spill. You’ve layered protective spells on me since the moment we met. Alan watches me like half the time he wants to hug me, and the other half he’s ready to dive for cover. Aladdin helped you put even _more_ protections on me; to the point that if they were actual steel I wouldn’t be able to walk. And you, who’ve lived your whole life gauging every last drop of magoi for maximum efficiency, didn’t breathe a word of protest that he was using too much power.” The grip was static-prickly against his palm, familiar as shreds of dream. “Baal didn’t just form a contract. He took a page out of Amon’s book and wedged himself into my soul.” _And that’s going to hurt you when I die, god, Baal, I never asked_ -

: _No, you did not. That was why I was willing._ : Warmth, like a scaled hand knuckling the hinge of his jaw. : _I will stand as watchman in your heart, my king. For you are mine, chosen and fought for, and I will not yield you to evil._ :

Simon sat on the bed, distantly hoping the red-and-black bedspread wouldn’t be too bothered by a little dungeon dirt. “Please,” he said simply. “Someone tell me why.”

Ja’far and Tiburon traded dubious glances. Malachy frowned at both of them.

Tiburon sighed, and sank to bended knee.

“No,” Simon protested, oddly alarmed. And pleased. And even more alarmed that he _was_ pleased. “I’m a _school principal_ , damn it-”

“You were possessed, my king.” Tiburon looked up at him through dark lashes. “Don’t even try to get out of the title. If Alan has to put up with it, so do you. You’re holders of Metal Vessels, bound to Djinn, who are embodiments of the rukh itself. You are souls others will follow, and your footsteps shake the world. _You are kings_.”

_No_ , Simon wanted to say. _You’re wrong, we’re friends, don’t_ -

“You were our king, and we followed you.” Tiburon swallowed, eyes suspiciously bright. “And - we knew something was wrong, but we’d had to do so many shadowed things to fight Al-Thamen already, we didn’t realize... we should have, I’ll never forgive myself for not - we should have known that wasn’t you!”

_Possessed_. Simon’s fingers clenched on the hilt, chilled to the core. It made horrible, terrifying sense. Ja’far’s desperate, unending vigil. Aladdin’s quiet wariness. And Alan, god; with half-memories of horror flitting through his mind Alan had still wanted to _protect_ him....

: _His strength is his kindness_ ,: Baal mused. : _Even without Lord Aladdin, he is a light in dark places, when all hope seems lost. Together we saved you_.: A hesitation; the moment between lightning and thunder. : _It was a very near thing_.:

Given Baal’s taste for understatement, he must have had both feet in the abyss, with the last grip crumbling under his fingers. Simon shuddered. “Tiburon. Please. We’re friends. Don’t... I haven’t earned that. Not from you. Not from anyone.”

Green eyes weighed him. Whatever he saw, Tiburon nodded, and rose. “Maybe not yet. But you will.”

“Possessed,” Malachy said thoughtfully.

“There are reasons Aladdin’s willing to be Simon’s cousin.” Ja’far leaned on the back of his chair, smile wry. “Even dead, his grandfather was a _bastard_.” He took a deep breath. “But I can remember things more clearly now. We won, Simon. _We won_. Al-Thamen was beaten, all of them and Arba shoved into that black hell with the dead hulk of Il Ilah, and David’s dark mire of the rukh was shredded and incinerated with everything we had. He is _not_ coming back.”

_But you’re all still paranoid that you missed something. I can’t blame you_. Simon looked between them, adding up the bits Aladdin had let drop. “Winning cost us everything.”

“Almost.” Tiburon chafed his arms, as if the room were suddenly icy. “The world was a wreck. Especially the Seven Seas Alliance. Ugo was able to open a portal here, to the shores of a sea of grass, who knows how many thousands of years ago. And then....” He shook his head, trying to smile it off. “Island in the Sea of Time mass-transport scenarios? Fun to read about. _Not_ so fun to live.”

Simon drew in a lungful of air, and let it sigh out. “I have dozens of questions,” he admitted. “And I intend to wring them _all_ out of you. Later. For now....” He dusted off his hands, and reached for the nearest dungeon sack. “Let’s see what our scaly friend’s sense of humor has left us with for gear.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So in this AU, the survivors of the Seven Seas Alliance, Balbadd, etc. _became_ the Proto-Indo-Europeans of the modern world. Hence all the surviving myths of Solomon, Djinn, Sinbad, and the Fire Prince... all of which had lots and lots of details lost in translation. 
> 
> **Gleefully watches Ancient History go down like a stack of cards.**
> 
> ...Damn, that was fun....


	17. Getting the Message

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Imagine Sinbad with a cell phone. The horror....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, some background. I roughed out my original chapters 17-19, then went back over them and realized there were important bits of story missing. Yet the bunnies really didn't want to write some of them, since said bits mostly consisted of Simon and co. tracking down portions of the havoc our trio wreaked all over Boston finding Maria. As in, things the reader already knew, thanks, _boring._
> 
> Then the bunnies reminded me that Simon needed to tell Richard that oops, they weren't going to need that plane ride from Florida after all. And of course they can tell him that, Simon has to have a cell phone.... 
> 
> And thus the following were spawned. I'm not sure what Richard's expression is getting these, beyond various shades of OMG.

SC: Already in Boston thnx. Arrange plane here.

SC: “How” interesting, but not something can detail unless FTF.

SC: AR local connections kind of scarily extensive. Have already intersected w/ hotel clerk, ladies negotiable virtue, hot dog vendor.

SC: Have noticed inverse relationship between “law-abiding” and “approve of AR”. Poor kid.

SC: Will fill you in on hot dogs later.

 

SC: “Mouse in Sneakers.” Richard, when these ladies give kid nickname... Note to self, avoid sex scenes, kid’s got trauma to work through.

SC: Explains skittishness with Morg, tho.

 

SC: Boston = deathtrap. Not letting AR back here w/o flamethrower.

SC: Tib notes AR/flamethrower “too interesting”. Suggests HE instead. Be ready to send bail?

SC: Can manage AC bail, if needed. Likewise Mal can Morg. Given past, cops may want guardian for AR.

SC: Can manage OWN bail. Very funny.

SC: JZ notes at least 4 traps on public phones. Also gang lookouts. Kids def. in trouble.

SC: AR spotted near warehouse. Warehouse currently under arson investigation. Tib impressed.

SC: Yes, that scares me too.

SC: Onlookers muttering about “SF w/laser”. Tib grinning. Mal smiling. JZ... not surprised. See pictures.

SC: Richard, show Edna the pictures. She deserves to say “I told you so.” Will forward if you don’t.

SC: AR has not been spotted near home. Has in Boston proper. Natural caution or specific reason to avoid?

SC: Right, forgot who I asked. Will assume deliberate avoidance. Kid wouldn’t have bolted w/o plan.

SC: Sources contacted - Maria out of sight since Thurs. Girl known to be slippery but kidpack scared, hiding.

SC: Maria kidpack leader and missing. This is Bad.

SC: Would be like you going missing from firm. Only your clerks aren’t preteen kids.

SC: JZ, Tib say better analogy: platoon sergeant MIA in enemy territory. Other kids panicked. Def. not talking to strangers. Even Mal.

SC: Mal’s good w/ kids. Ask him for tips.

SC: Rescue mission expanding. Will need bigger plane.


	18. Smoke and Mirrors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our poor FBI agent tries to apply logic, and Fanalis go hunting. The Boston Fire Department is going to hate me.

: _Wake_.:

_Tired_ , Alan thought hazily. _Go ‘way_.

: _Wake, my king, Morgan is trying to rouse you_ -:

_Morgan?_ Alan scrunched his eyes, trying to lift lids that felt heavy as lead. Felt like... someone poking his collarbone. But dimly, as if everything were wrapped in gauze.

: _Wake up! There is an enchantment bespelling this mockery of air- ah, you_ do _know science! It’s an ether, there is Life Magoi to draw it to breathing lungs-_ :

Alan rolled out from under the cot, thumping his shoulder on the metal bracing one of the legs in a dim burst of pain, fingers fumbling for his multitool.

_Fire. Need fire around me; around us. Now!_

Flickers of gold and pale yellow, dancing like curtains in the wind as they swirled around and out from him. The dense, sweet irritation burned away from the air as Alan coughed. _Never thought I’d be so glad to taste smoke_ -

He caught Morgan as she fell against him, red eyes heavy-lidded and woozy. “Gas,” she managed, just above a whisper. “Footsteps - stairs-”

“Breathe, I got you.” Alan brushed fire over her like a delicate, deadly feather, sparks flaring as flames ate the sedative like popcorn. Around the room he could see a half-dozen firefighters passed out on various cots, obviously keeled over from the graveyard shift. It’d take an alarm going off to get them up on a regular day, much less with sleep gas added in the mix.

_That, I can do_. Deliberately, he flung fire at the sprinkler heads on the ceiling. Because this firehouse only had three floors; if Morgan heard footsteps there wasn’t time for an orderly retreat. They needed chaos and confusion, and they needed it _now_.

Morgan sputtered as the first warm water fell, blinking more alert as she straightened. Then cringed, as the firehouse’s own sirens blared, probably drowning out all the footfalls she was keeping track of. “What-?”

“Fire alarm! We need people to know there’s trouble here- later!” Alan pulled out the crinkly edge of the survival blanket the pair of boys had been hunkered under, wrapped it around an out-cold magi, and scooped Aladdin over his shoulder like a bony feedsack. Drops of water were fizzing into steam in his hair, which was both incredibly neat and very very distracting. “Grab Maria!”

_Magic means they’re targeting us_ , he thought as they bolted into the stairwell, racing up. He could catch glimpses of people in some kind of surgical masks, hear swears even over the sirens as their pursuers put on speed. _Didn’t think they’d swat regular people in the crossfire, damn it, why am I_ surprised, _Callimachus sure didn’t care. Best thing we can do for everybody is make sure someone’s coming to help them, and get_ out _of here-!_

Maria slung in a fireman’s carry, Morgan halted, toes biting into the corrugated metal of the stairs. “They’re coming from above!”

_What? Why_ \- But Alan wasn’t about to doubt her ears. _The hell with this_. He yanked the turban off Aladdin’s hair, shaking it half-open, and jerked his head toward the outer wall. “Brick!”

Grinning fiercely, Morgan pounded up three stairs and _jumped_.

Even stone wouldn’t have stood a chance against Fanalis strikes. Brick shattered, a glassy tumble of a roar.

Half a step behind, Alan leapt on her heels, snapping out the carpet like a minnow-net to swoop under the both of them.

Wind combed his hair as they tumbled and rose; Alan grinned, and shoved off a stray brick, even as sunlight stabbed sore eyes. _Hey, I think I might be getting used to this_ -

Patched shadows whirled overhead.

He leapt and slashed, before a strand of the falling cords could touch white fabric. Whoever the coyote-magicians really were, they liked magoi-draining tricks, and crashing out of midair was _not_ on his list of things to do today.

Net burned rather nicely, if he did say so himself.

_...Oops. Um. Wonder how long it’ll take that UPS truck to notice there’s something burning on top of- yep, they did_.

Thankfully the driver had the pure sense to just jam on the brakes, not swerve. Flaming cords dropped harmlessly into the street, and Boston’s usual insane drivers dodged it easily as they would a parking ticket.

Morgan winced as cars below laid on horns; more piercing than the firehouse alarm, if not half so loud. “Where do we go?”

_Good question_. Morgan had Maria nestled up by Aladdin, herself crouched ready to attack anything coming at them from behind. Not that even a Fanalis kick would do much good against a bullet. _Think, think - right!_ “Out of sight!” Alan called back. The fire station was one of the shortest buildings here. If they could just get past a row of townhouses, and around one of the towering office skyscrapers-

Morgan laughed, wild and joyous. “I didn’t know we could fly this!”

“...Um.” Alan gulped, as white fabric wobbled with his shift of attention. A carpet handled a lot different from the broom Yunan had let him borrow ages ago; and given this was _Aladdin’s_ carpet, it was already cranky at someone else using it. “Ever see Indiana Jones? _Fly_ , yes....” _Oh great, there’s the park! ...Oh hell, there’s the_ park, _and that’s a really big_ -

Morgan seized them all, and jumped.

... _Tree_ , Alan thought, clutching gray bark. He coughed, and spit out a maple leaf, green with just the first traces of autumn-yellowing. “Take it you saw it.”

Perched in the fork of the tree, kids and turban both flopping over her shoulders, Morgan nodded. And smiled.

Alan had to grin back. “Well, we’re,” he snickered, “not out of the woods yet.”

Morgan gave him a look askance.

“No, seriously.” He was trying not to laugh. But that same odd confident _happy_ was bubbling up again, and.... _Amon! Quit that, I need to think!_

: _I almost wish I were doing something, my king_.: Amon’s tone was very wry. : _You are a joyous soul. That is why Aladdin chose you. At the time, I thought it a child’s frivolous fancy_.: A pause. : _I was wrong_.:

Alan blinked. _Are you_ seriously _saying the crazy is me?_

That was a laugh. In his mind. Like a crackle of fire.

Alan gripped a rough patch of bark where some crazy gymnastic sugarer must have tried to tap the tree years back; blinking, as if that would clear his head. He _didn’t_ like fighting, no Ryans did, he’d _always_ run if he had the chance-

_“I love trouble,”_ a ghostly voice chuckled in memory. _“And if I love it, you love it....”_

_I don’t want to run. I want to_ stop them.

_I’m... not the person Mom thought I was. I can’t just watch and walk away. I have to_ do _something._

_Mom - Mom always said fighting was wrong, fighting was stupid; if you got into a fight you didn’t think it through-_

_But someone has to stop them._

_I don’t_ want _to fight. But I’m here,_ we’re _here, and they have magic and the cops don’t - and they’re not going to stop coming after Maria. And me. We smashed a whole warehouse around them and they’re still coming! Heaven help us if they figure out about magi, what are they going to bring out next, tanks?_

_And they set a_ trap. _If they tried to trap us they’ve trapped other magoi-users before, who knows how many? Their chains almost killed Maria when it just took us a day to get to her! How many others have they killed, someone’s got to_ stop _them-_

_And_ we _have magic_.

_Mom always said watch and walk away, because we’d write articles. We’d tell people what was going on, and then they could do something. But the cops don’t believe in magic. We do. And - if there’s no cops, and the crime happens and you’re_ right there....

Anne Ryans had been very thorough on what laws they were and weren’t breaking when they gathered information for her next post. Maybe she’d never made a citizen’s arrest herself, but Alan knew the law.

_Only we can’t arrest these guys. We’re kids, nobody would listen - we wouldn’t stop them without deadly force, and you can’t do that if you’re not a cop, not unless it’s self-defense. And the cops would never buy self-defense because they don’t think magic’s_ real. _So what can we-_

_The cops don’t think magic’s real. That’s it. That’s where we have to hit them._

Alan drew in a breath of hot city morning. Glanced down, and dropped out of the maple tree, bouncing between branches until he touched down on mossy earth. Morgan followed silently; just a hair more cautious, so her woozy burdens never got so much as a scratch.

“I think I have a plan,” Alan said quietly, heading deeper into the park so they’d be shielded from the road. If they were where he thought they were, then this way would give them _options_. “It’s kind of risky, but they’re already tracking us somehow. The longer they chase us, the more time they’ve got to come up with something we can’t break out of without people getting hurt. So... we need to hunt them _back_.”

“Yes.” Low and fierce and _eager_ ; red eyes shone as she searched his face.

“But if we’re going to pull that off, we really need Aladdin awake,” Alan said half to himself, as he felt his way through the idea. “Which means we need to buy enough time for him to come out of it - damn it, I wish I knew how modern magical tracking _works_ , I thought we’d trashed that by burning anything Maria left, but they must have had a backup for the bracelets, somehow-”

“Running water,” Morgan stated.

Alan cut himself off, picking his steps more carefully as the ground turned squishier and wetter, ferns uncoiling in the shadows of trees. Yep, they were where he’d thought, more or less. Huh. Running water... _might_ work. If someone were working on very delicate traces of energy that could easily be muddied in the wrong circumstances. Which would make sense, given the modern magic he’d seen so far. He should tell her that-

“I thought running through water to throw off the hounds didn’t work,” Alan said instead. “Mythbusters tried it.”

_Damn it. Damn it, I chickened out, why did I... oh. Right_. Alan winced. _A mental century as a little wiggly blob of light, and then three years stuck in a weird doll looking after Judar. Aladdin warned us the spell would hurt, but - I don’t want her to know how much. Not until we can find someplace to just sit and shake..._.

And he was avoiding the real problem, like the teenage idiot he was. Argh. Alan had hoped he’d gotten over stubborn _I-can-do-everything-myself_ in the _last_ life.

_I know a lot about magic, sure. Maybe too much. I know_ ancient _magic._

And what they were up against was _modern_ magic. Which he didn’t know. Ja’far knew it, and Aladdin probably knew some - but as far as people currently awake and conscious? Morgan was the expert. And he was damn well going to listen to her, no matter how much he thought he knew. Because he’d already thought he’d done enough to cut their trail once, and he’d been wrong. Scarily wrong.

_Maybe modern magic’s not as flashy. But it’s_ different. _It uses Tools, it uses tech - oh man, I’m an idiot, there could be plain old tracking bugs_ on _Maria, I need to ask Aladdin to sweep her over for anything with bits of lightning_.

Even his own magoi-use was different. Sure, he’d picked the lock on the firehouse roof the normal way, but if he’d had to-

_If I had to, I could have just_ asked _it. Alibaba never did that... except once_.

_Amon’s door_.

And wasn’t that something to make Alan take a deep breath; that that one moment he’d needed and _been_ needed had sunk into his very soul. That part of him had remembered that friend, that partnership, even when everything else was a blur of lost dreams.

_I learned how to open doors, even while I was stumbling around Boston like a blind maniac. Evil magicians prowling the back alleys, and I had no clue? Draining people dry, and I didn’t-_

Alan cut that thought off with a wince. _I didn’t know_ , he told himself firmly. _I know now. And I’m going to do something about it. Somehow_.

And doing had better start by listening to the real expert here. Alan took a breath. “Okay, I’m an idiot. The Mythbusters were testing dogs, not magic. How’s it work on Fanalis? And - you said there are some magicians in your family, too. So you know more about modern magical stuff than me. A lot more.”

Morgan was watching him as they walked, as if she’d seen all his doubts and stomping of his stupid pride written right on his face. “Water doesn’t work on scent,” she agreed. “But on magic? It’s a flow of natural magoi, washing away the traces of other lives. It can work.” She frowned at the moss they were squishing over. “I’m not sure this is enough of a current.”

“This, no,” Alan agreed, watching a footprint turn damp before he headed on and lower down. There was a reason this was a pocket park, not yet another clump of city housing. Mossy earth dipped into a gully here; stray bits of trash dotting green with white and orange wrappers, tree-frogs calling in the heat. A bit of newsprint flapped wetly, half the page stuck to an iron gate locking an abyss of concrete, channeling what had been a stream deeper into the city. “How do you feel about property damage?”

* * *

_Splash_.

Aladdin coughed, head aching and queasy as if he’d overdone it at a Maharagan. Only wherever they were smelled like mold and cement; not a trace of tropical flowers or sea breezes to ease his stomach. And there was a bony shoulder digging into his side. “Oooow....”

“Oh, thank god,” Alan breathed, water sloshing with every step. “Hang on, we’re almost at an access ladder.”

“A wha..?” Aladdin blinked open gummy eyes, squinting at the silvery rukh lighting the damp not-stone tunnel Alan was carrying him through. Flutters of light were urging them on, gleeing at Morgan’s joyous destruction, worrying at Maria as she groaned and swore, and sticking out spirit-tongues at the thin tendrils of purple magoi wisping out of the air, trying to latch onto any foot that threatened to stray too far from squelching liquid. _Nyaaaah!_

“We think they’re tracking us magically.” Morgan steadied Maria on her shoulders as the younger girl started and thrashed. “My clan says running water can block some tracking spells. Can you tell if it’s working?”

“I think so?” Aladdin said doubtfully. “There’s something trying to wiggle after Maria, but it looks like it can’t find us.” He pushed himself up enough to take a better look at the rukh and the dry concrete platform ahead of them, glad that Alan had slowed. “But if we step out of the water... wait, I have an idea.”

Slipping his wand out of his sleeve, Aladdin waved at the dark water around Alan’s feet and murmured a few words Yamraiha had helped him find, so long ago.

Rippling like snake scales, water rose and circled them.

_Okay, that form looks good. Let’s make it a little bigger_.

That just took a gesture, urging the ring to sweep out and around Morgan as well. The shimmering threads of seeking violet fell away, thwarted.

“Whew,” Aladdin breathed. “Okay, now let’s get dry.”

“Get dry?” Alan shifted a hand just to mess with his hair. “You didn’t slosh through the drains.”

“I’m still wet!” Aladdin’s nose wrinkled. The water on him smelled oddly rusty and stale. “What’d we do, walk through a rainstorm? It didn’t look like rain.”

“Hey, New England,” Alan shrugged, stepping up into faint dapples of sunlight on gray not-stone. “You don’t like the weather, just wait five minutes.”

“Silly.” Morgan landed neatly on the concrete platform, water seeping from her shoes. “Alan set off the sprinklers.”

“Why?” Maria said woozily, hanging onto Morgan’s hand with a death-grip as the redhead helped her sit up on the cold floor.

“Because those coyote-magicians used knockout gas on the whole station. I set off the alarms, so somebody will come help them. Hopefully with cops for backup.” Alan crouched so Aladdin could scramble down, but kept a grip on his arm.

Good thing. Aladdin blinked more, as the tunnel seemed to lurch around them. It was almost like being in Amon’s dungeon; only instead of glowing green moss, there was only a little late-morning sun filtering down from a heavy grate about ten feet above them. “Knockout gas? You mean, like some of the plants in Zagan’s dungeon?”

“Yes.” Morgan’s nod was focused; fierce. “I felt my phone ring, but I couldn’t move fast enough to reach it. It went to voicemail. That’s when I knew something was wrong.” She felt at her pockets, red eyes creased with worry. “I must have dropped it.”

“We can find another phone,” Alan reassured her. “Heck, I know where there are still some old-fashioned pay phones hanging on.... What’s wrong?”

Maria was staring at the water circling them, mouth open as if it was the most incredible thing she’d seen in her life. Shook herself, and stared at Aladdin.

_Oh_.

“It’s okay, I can keep this up all day.” Aladdin smiled at her. “I had a really good teacher.”

“...There are teachers?”

Ow, he knew that look. Even more focused and intent than Prescott and Michaela’s.

_I want this, but I don’t even know what this is! I’m scared_.

“There are people who can help,” Alan said firmly. “Right now we need to know who’s after us. Whoever they are, they know how to mix tech and magic.” Gold eyes stared at Maria, intent. “The last bunch set a trap and waited. This time it was an ambush, but the magic was just as nasty. So - probably the same guys you got away from before. Do you know anything about who they are? Names, places, streets? Anything?”

Maria paled, and looked away.

Aladdin frowned. Usually people had _trusted_ Alibaba with the awful things in their life. Except Hakuryuu, which had led to bad things happening to everyone-

“I’m just asking so we can prioritize where to look first.” Alan crossed his arms, looking more quietly angry than Aladdin had seen in... a very long time. “I already know one place we can shake down for answers.”

“You... do.” Maria went even paler.

“Oh yeah.” Gold eyes glittered in the shadows. “The papers you guys brought out when you ran? DMV’s closed on Saturday. Officially. But before everything went crash, I found out who stays open... _not_ officially.”

Okay, now Alan was starting to look just a little scary. “DMV?” Aladdin asked, uneasy.

Morgan blinked, as if she were a little startled herself. “We’re going to find slavers in the _Driver’s License office?_ ”

“We’re going to find people who know them. Who take bribes for documents, and don’t care who they’re giving them to. And that should get us close enough for Aladdin to pick up on these guys’ Magic Tools.” Alan took a step forward. “Maria. I don’t know what they did to you. I don’t know what they threatened you with. But if they took down a fire station, they’re too damn dangerous to let them have a chance to sit and scheme again. This time they knocked out the innocent bystanders. Next time people won’t be that lucky. So we’re going to change the battleground. We’re going to make them fight on _our_ terms.”

“How?” Maria croaked.

“Easy.” And when Alan smiled like that, someone could think it really _was_ easy. “The coyotes can’t do this without help. Lots of help. _Bribed_ help. We make those people see that going after us costs _them_. We’re going to find everything they’ve made that’s magic and _break it into pieces_.” Alan shrugged. “The cops can handle the rest.”

Maria winced, wrapping her arms around her knees as if she wanted to pull herself into a hole and disappear. “You _can’t_. They - I - I cannot help....”

Aladdin frowned, studying the unsettled flow of rukh around her. It was subtle, but he thought, just maybe... yes. There _were_ some kind of knots there. “Maria. If you could tell us about someone who hurt you, someone who’s trying to hurt us - would you want us to know? If we could find out?”

Dark eyes widened. She pulled her knees even tighter to her chest, only that bird-quick gaze visible.

“Because if you did....” Aladdin smiled at her. “There’s a way I can ask, and you don’t have to say anything. All you have to do is be there. And trust me.”

Silence. Aladdin could hear horns and swearing from the street overhead, the trickling shush of water still circling around them. The low, near-soundless keen, as the younger girl shuddered with silent sobs.

Alan’s face fell, as he crouched by her side. “Maria. I’m sorry-”

Tears trickling down her face, Maria shook her head. “You came. You promised, and you _came_.” She looked up, breath ragged, eyes wet and desperate. “Do what you will, Sky-child. _They must be stopped_.”

* * *

“Someone _drugged_ our guys?” Fire Marshal Bradley blazed, stalking up the stairs toward the firemen’s bunks.

“Far as we can tell.” Station Chief Lohan looked pasty and green around the gills, but he was forging grimly on, letting the paramedics look after men who’d gotten a worse dose.

“Tell me someone got a description!”

“Rough one, sir. Nobody woke up in time to see much, and - well, just take a look....”

Domingo kept pace behind them both, quietly grim. If he knew firefighters, they’d want to handle this themselves. If he knew the government, though, this case was bound to land with the FBI or Homeland Security, no matter what the Boston FD wanted. For now he’d just tag along, and take scene notes while everything was fresh. If it did end up with the FBI, it’d have higher priority than human trafficking, damn it-

Sunlight was pouring into the stairwell above, between the bunk floor and the way up to the roof. Through a bear-sized hole knocked clear through solid brick.  

Bradley’s jaw worked. “...The _hell?_ ” he managed at last.

“I’m guessing sledgehammer.” The station chief rubbed at sore eyes. “Or something. We started asking around outside, but nobody saw nothin’.” His voice soured. “Or worse than nothing. God, the stuff on the streets people take-”

“Worse than nothing?” Domingo pounced.

The chief blinked at him, as if he’d forgotten the agent was there. Took a deep breath, and rolled his eyes. “One joker said he thought he saw a _flying carpet_.”

Right. Domingo nodded, sympathetic.

“Chief!” One of the firemen waved from the bunkroom door. “Look at this!”

Even with the cots, there was enough room to muddle in and stare up at a fire-scorched sprinkler head. “I take it that’s what set the alarms off?” Domingo observed. “Officer - Pullman?”

“Must have been; nobody smelled smoke when we rolled out.” Pullman’s handlebar mustache twitched in a frown as he squinted at sooty copper. “So is that weird, Chief, or what?”

“Weird,” Chief Lohan agreed.

“Definitely weird,” Bradley muttered, taking his gaze from the seared sprinkler down, then around, face darkening in a scowl as he kept looking.

“What am I missing?” Domingo asked quietly.

“Same thing I am. Flame source.” Bradley scratched at his sideburns. “Look. See how it’s burned? The glass _shattered_.”

“But there isn’t any....” Dom glanced down where Bradley had, catching glints of glass on the floor. “Hmm. That is how they’re supposed to work?”

“They’re _supposed_ to work by going boom when the air hits a level of too damn hot,” Bradley said gruffly. “Only the air in here...?”

“Cool, sir,” Pullman reported. “Well, cool as it gets. _Summer_.”

As if Boston had any room to talk, next to summer in Chicago. Still, the man had a point. “You mean we’re looking at a localized fire,” Domingo said thoughtfully. He glanced at the other sprinkler heads; every bit of glass shattered, with more or less charring depending how close they were to this one source. “ _Directed_ fire. Nothing else is burned.”

“You think someone set off the sprinklers on purpose?” Bradley scowled. “Doesn’t make sense. Without the sirens, probably nobody would have woken up-”

“Chief!” Another fireman dragged a heavy pack out from under a cot, sending a golden-brown cell phone skittering across the floor. “Somebody was in here!”

Dom pounced on the phone first, noting the sheer incongruity of the design on the case: a red-eyed catgirl in Egyptian linen, carrying a spear like a shaft of sunlight, with a carnelian disc on her winged headdress. _Sekhmet_ was traced in letters flowing like sand.

_There is no way this is a fireman’s phone_.

“Agent Dominguez, that’s part of our investigation-”

Ha. He might not be able to read fire patterns, but accessing an outdated flip phone’s memory storage was as easy as....

Domingo stared at a snapshot of cut metal-and-cloth cuffs, and felt his blood start boiling. “I’m afraid it’s also part of _my_ investigation, Marshal.” He held the screen out so they could view it, and pointed to symbols some unknown person had sliced through. Pale cloth was still speckled with blood. “The people I’ve been chasing use these designs.”

“The coyotes?” Bradley looked like he wanted to spit. “What’s their stuff doing on a kid’s phone?”

_We don’t know it’s a kid’s phone_ , Domingo almost said. Though that would make sense. Older, cheaper phone, no great loss if it broke; more likely to be a teen’s phone, given someone had taken the time to decorate it, and he _knew_ this bunch of traffickers were focused on those under eighteen-

“Hey.” Pullman leaned in to squint at the tiny screen. “Is that our roof?”

Bradley beat him up there. Probably because the Fire Marshal didn’t so much as glance out the hole in the stairwell, dizzying drop or not. “Holy-!”

Pullman hadn’t been wrong, Domingo saw, hard on Bradley’s heels; there was the patch of tarry roof in the picture. And in the middle of it....

_That’s steel_. Melted _steel_.

The remnants of sliced cuffs, if his eyes weren’t fooling him. Only _how?_

“They must have melted them somewhere else.” The fire marshal’s tone was flat, half in shock. “If those things... you couldn’t reach that temp without setting the whole roof on fire, there’s no way-”

“Special Forces with a laser?” Domingo mused.

_“That’s not funny!”_

Domingo let his eyes narrow. “I’m not laughing. We were just at a scene that stank of human traffickers, Marshal. And here we find a pair of their restraints, handled just as roughly as their roof.”

“You... don’t....” Bradley grimaced, looking between the cuffs and the agent. “Okay, Dominguez. What have _you_ got?”

“I’m not sure yet. But....” Domingo turned to the door they’d come through, crouching to eye the lock. “Fresh scratches. Someone picked this lock, recently. Old housebreaker’s trick,” he added, glancing back at the marshal. “People tend to put their strongest locks at ground level. So if you have the time and the nerve to climb, you can find an easier way in. I would say our unknowns dropped those cuffs on your roof, broke in....”

Bradley followed him back down to the bunk level, where the chief had put the pack on a table. And otherwise left it untouched, Domingo was glad to see, as he ducked down to look under the cot and came up with a strand of long red hair. “And apparently hid under your beds,” he said wryly. “No one noticed?”

“We had a busy night,” Chief Lohan said, almost mildly. “Labor Day weekend.”

Oh yes; the crazies, drunks, and flat-out malicious would be out in force. And any kid in trouble, real trouble, would have come to a Safe Place like a firehouse to avoid them-

_Except this isn’t the Midwest,_ Domingo reminded himself. _Safe Place doesn’t set up shop out here. Damn it_.

“I don’t get it,” Pullman frowned. “Why would the guys who gassed us hide under our beds?”

“Because they weren’t the ones who gassed you.” Bradley eyed the agent. “You think they’re the ones who set off the alarm.” He flung up his hands at the impossibly shattered sprinkler heads. _“How?”_

“When I find them, I’ll ask them,” Domingo said pointedly, punching up the phone’s history. “We had an impossible fire at the warehouse, and now another unusual flame here. And I don’t believe in coincidences.” _Especially not with Florida phone numbers coming up... but he can’t be involved. Richard would have told me if_ -

No ringtone. Barely even a vibration. The screen simply lit, with _Malachy MacLea_ and yet another number from Richard’s area code. Damn it.

_What kind of teenager leaves their phone on silent?_

“Agent Dominguez,” he clipped out. “Who is this?”

_“What are you doing with my niece’s phone?”_

* * *

“You’re going to have to tell him.”

Ja’far glanced at the hovering swordsman, and deliberately did not finger his rope-knives. Thankfully Chamain had been more than willing to hold this room for the four of them, for a small fee, as they combed through his grapevine of contacts and every scrap of information Simon and Tiburon had to locate their missing students. Because calling Morgan back hadn’t gotten through.

_Because of course things couldn’t be that simple_.

On Chamain’s advice their first stop had been the Star of the Sea charity, where Simon had tried to charm Sister Thomasina into telling them anything. _Tried_ being the operative word; the gray-haired nun had been as immune to the Cavins charm as Maader had been to Sinbad’s. Though hopefully with far better intentions.

_Given how much she wouldn’t say, even with Richard on the line, I’d bet she did talk to Alan before he left_ , Ja’far thought darkly. _If Silversmith decides to take her whole charity apart, I might just cheer him on_.

It probably hadn’t helped that the nun had spent a good five seconds straight staring at the... unusual... outfits they’d managed to put together out of Baal’s gifts. Ja’far himself had managed to come out of the dungeon mostly unscathed; being able to fight at a distance helped. His street clothes could still pass for professional casual, though a fashion fan would pick out that his linen shirt had never seen a machine loom. But the others....

Silk, shimmer, and styles older than parts of human history. He’d _told_ Simon this was a Bad Idea before they’d ever left for the church charity. Very Bad. On the level of juggling alligators Bad.

“And how do you think we’re going to find street rats that don’t want to be found?” Simon had replied, so matter of fact Ja’far wanted to set his hair on fire. “Especially when we’re up against a deadline.” Simon had grinned then, bright as sun on rippling waves. “Trust me. This is _perfect_.”

_He was right. Damn it_.

They’d been short the camera equipment that would make _movie crew_ the obvious answer to curious eyes. But with Simon in full-throated Large Ham mode, Tiburon and Malachy being obviously armed and dangerously amused, and his own serpentine simmer of temper as he shadowed them all through the streets - they couldn’t have drawn more attention if they’d had trained elephants juggling flaming torches. The guesses Ja’far had heard whispered ranged from sideshow performers to lost clowns to complete and utter lunatics escaped from some unsuspected asylum.

_Somehow, I think they’re not wrong_.

The majority opinion seemed to be _really lost actors_ , which had led to speculations on their intelligence, or lack of same, and then taunts and jeering. Ja’far had tried not to show how that put his hackles up, given Malachy and Tiburon were still wearing polite, neutral smiles that weren’t quite promising violence....

And Simon had beamed at one of the sly, short, dark-eyed strays making noise. “Hello there! Do you think you could help me find an address?”

_Only Simon_ , Ja’far thought now, feeling the comforting weight of wires wrapped around his arms as he leaned back in the hotel chair. _Only he could talk street rats who don’t even speak his language into trusting a lunatic in silks and ancient jewels_.

Well, sort of trusting, at least. Enough to listen to _Maria_ and _Alan_ and _came to help_. A shy little girl named Lupe had admitted no one had seen Maria for two days, and they were worried; a boy named Tobal had pointed them toward a warehouse currently roped off with crime scene tape. And a slightly older boy named Alesandro had dropped the detail that no, Alan hadn’t been near his home; how could he be, when no one had a key to the new locks?

Which had been a sly challenge they’d all inadvertently passed, from Tiburon’s snort to Malachy’s small smile to his own rolled eyes. Alesandro had actually perked up, willing to believe they might not be actively out to get him if they knew about Alan and locks.

_Optimist_.

A strange thought to have about a street kid, but Ja’far _knew_ who’d fanned that spark of hope in young eyes. The rukh had glimmered around each and every one of Alan’s strays. Not strongly; they weren’t magi, or even as magical as a King’s Candidate-

_But they’re magicians. Young, untrained magicians_.

Magicians who would have latched onto Alan like iron filings to a magnet, because with no one to teach them the rukh around them would have roiled with every spike of young emotion. Stray sparks, unexplained fires, dust-devils with seeming mind and will - those youngsters would have suffered it all, and been blamed for it all, until they’d thought they were going out of their minds.

Until they’d found Alan. Because kings _calmed the rukh_.

_They needed help, and all they had was Alan. And Richard yanked him away from them_.

It made Ja’far want to strangle something. Or someone. If he could just track down who’d hurt them....

_I’d bet it’s whoever trapped those phones we passed. The odds of there being two magical organizations in one community are slim to none._

The odds of there being _one_ organized group of magicians in any place were already low enough. Between how hard it had been over the past centuries to move enough magoi to get visible results from a spell, the fact that magical talent didn’t always pop up reliably from one generation to the next, and the annoying tendency of human beings to either take advantage of their special abilities to terrorize unfriendly neighbors or form into rabid mobs to hang, stone, or otherwise murder magical neighbors... just about everywhere Ja’far been in the world outside Chernobyl, magic was passed down from master to apprentice, and that was it. More than one large-scale magical organization in a single city? Not likely. And given magicians were just as prone to rivalries and backstabbing as regular human beings... certainly not for long.

_Still. I’ve never been in Boston before_.

With good reason. It was a lousy place to try to film. The nest of one-way streets had led to more than one would-be Beantown visitor being hauled off by somewhat sympathetic cops, screaming about how the Hill had risen up and shaken them off. If Hollywood needed Boston backgrounds, they hired locals to do location shots, then reconstructed the rest in a studio.

So it could have been chance he’d never been here. Or it could have been Simon’s luck, because if the pair of them had walked into Boston without a Djinn as backup....

_I might not have walked out again._ Ja’far shuddered, thinking of magical curses left out in plain view for anyone to fall into. Who spent the energy to booby-trap phones?

_Someone who’s found a way to keep building power for a long, long time. Those are_ old _spells_.

Old, layered, and with a slimy feel to them that spoke of magoi worked from pain. And damn it, his friends already knew him too well; they’d caught him grimacing, and he’d had to _explain_.

_Yes, the traffickers we’re after could be worse than Callimachus. Yes, Simon, even when we count in the fact that he could have killed everyone at Hancock. At least the alchemist made his Tools from his_ own _power. These people_....

These _slavers_ had been feeding on others’ pain for who knew how long. It set Ja’far’s teeth on edge.

And not just his. Tiburon and Malachy had taken his explanation, looked at each other with narrowed eyes, and nodded.

Simon had nudged up close enough to the latest accursed phonebooth to whisper, “They just decided to take the gloves off, didn’t they?”

It was such an odd relief, that Simon recognized that-

“Of course they did,” Simon had gone on. “Because if these people are using magoi gained from pain... I think we know who had a vested interest in making a young man and his mother the local scapegoats, don’t we?”

For a moment, Ja’far had been frozen in pure dread. Because that tone was Simon deciding that just maybe the gloves _ought_ to come off, and that might end with people worse than dead-

And then his mind had connected the same dots his friends had, and his temper had all but gone up in flames.

_Torture a young king. Make his life - all the lives of those around him - hell. Rouse those who truly know him to a burning rage, because they can see what’s happening to them all isn’t fair_....

Arrange for that to happen, and their enemies didn’t even have to lay a finger on Alan to gain power from him. Dark rukh would fountain up from the very streets, free for the taking; held back only by the brightness a stubborn young man inspired in the lives of those he tried to help.

_And then Anne was murdered_.

This was Boston, not Balbadd, but Ja’far could _see_ the echoes of the past. It made him want to kill something.

Not just him. Ja’far could feel the crackle of lightning now, casting tiny flickers of light along his sleeves that didn’t quite match their hotel room’s uncertain lighting. Tiny, tiny prickles, small as winter-day static, probing at the metal in the nearby chair and table for footholds as it waited to be unleashed.

Static bright as lightning, reflected in Tiburon’s watchful eyes. Ja’far took a deep breath. And another. _Bararaq Sei. I didn’t ask you to come back_....

A spark of _amusement_ brushed him, along with tingles of _relief_ and _worry-for-the-king_.

_I shouldn’t even have you! I’m a magician_ -

: _So? Still bound. Still mine_.:

And that, so far as Sei was concerned, was that. His rukh’s bond to Simon was still true... and a familiar spirit was as free to choose as any Djinn.

: _If the rukh didn’t want you to have me, they shouldn’t have made you a_ Life _magician_.:

Because Life’s second affinity was Lightning, and _argh_. He hadn’t even thought twice when the spark had flown to him, because it was so familiar and he’d been in a _dungeon_ and you absolutely did not turn down an ally in dire straits-

And then Ja’far had had sudden, visceral understanding of why Yamraiha had never taken up a Household Vessel, because trying to balance both flows of energy had _flattened_ him.

It seemed to be getting better now. Slowly. Evidently teaching Simon to handle his own magoi had been time well spent; he knew how the energy was supposed to move. Though learning to switch between giving the rukh commands to flowing with the _feeling_ of a Household Vessel was going to take a _lot_ of work.

“Simon ought to know what you’re risking,” Tiburon went on now, voice low even in the relative privacy of their room. He leaned deliberately against the dark-papered wall, green silk creased into shimmery ripples where it peeped from his sweatshirt collar. “What Malachy might be risking. He may not have Masrur’s memories back, but you can’t tell me he’s not following Simon with the rest of us. I’m not sure a familiar spirit would take chainmail as a Vessel, but it _is_ metal. And after what happened to Drakon-”

“I’m not going to throw myself blindly at an impossibly strong enemy until he dismantles me, and it’s Assimilate or die,” Ja’far cut him off. “More important, I refuse to be in a position for that to happen. Why should I, when I have you idiots to throw at any opponent insane enough to attack us?”

For a moment, Tiburon’s face was a study in neutrality; then one corner of his mouth turned up in a familiar, wicked smirk. “Damn. That sounds like _fun_.”

It did, at that. Not that he _ever_ planned to admit that to Simon. “Not to mention, we have an advantage our Partevian general lacked,” Ja’far said wryly. Nodded toward the bed, where Simon was communing with his cutlass and Malachy had gently punched in the number that might finally let them reel in their wayward students. “If we get in over our heads, we can _call for help_.”

“Point,” Tiburon allowed. “But what if-”

Malachy scowled.

_Damn, it must have gone to voicemail again_ , Ja’far thought. _What is Morgan doing?_

“What are you doing with my niece’s phone?”

Tiburon blinked, and gave Ja’far a look askance.

Ja’far stifled a groan. _I’m going to kill those three when I get my hands on them, I swear. Well, maim. Threaten. Definitely threaten..._.

“Agent Dominguez.” Malachy frowned at Simon. “FBI.”

“Oh, really?” Simon murmured. Quiet. Casual. Just a flicker of eyes toward Ja’far told him Simon had caught the tense stillness in Malachy’s frame.

_Morgan had to abandon her phone. She’s_ definitely _in trouble. And if a Fanalis is - all of them are_.

“If it is him, this could be good news.” Tiburon caught Malachy’s gaze, his own level and uncompromising. “I asked a few people. Domingo Dominguez is one of the agents who’s been following human trafficking in the area. And he’s the only one who moved here _recently_. Not much more than a month before Anne died.”

“Making him the most likely agent _not_ to be suborned by whoever the coyotes have bribed,” Ja’far concluded. “I wish Richard had given us a name.”

“Stubborn runs in the family,” Tiburon sighed. “As I said, I asked around. Dominguez wasn’t the only agent who visited Alan in the hospital... but according to a certain locksmith, Silversmith let him have a key to Ryans’ door.”

“Interesting. Though - Domingo?” Simon mused. “What were his parents _thinking?_ ”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Tiburon said wryly. “I wasn’t able to get details - one of my sources was laughing too hard - but apparently his full name is even worse.”

“Worse than Domingo Dominguez?” Simon shuddered. “Ow.”

Ja’far stared at the damned surprise-springing menace of a swordsman. Because he remembered someone whose name was _much_ worse, but... no. Just _no_.

Tiburon arched a noble brow. It might have been nobler if there hadn’t been so much wicked grin in it. “I know that look,” he murmured.

“Oh, you do,” Ja’far muttered back.

“Hmm. Well, not _know_ , true, you’re a lot more tense this time around. Though given you’re trying to head off _Sinbad: the Revenge_ , I can’t blame you. Hollywood is so into sequels these days.” He smirked. “At a guess, I’d say that’s a ‘we’re about to pick up another General’ look.” Green eyes glinted, eager as a cat about to pounce. “Come on. What do you think the odds are?”

Ja’far sighed. Because Simon. Aladdin. _Alan_. All in the same place. He could pretty much hear the rukh giggling at him as it fluttered by. “About as good as lightning striking twice.”

Tiburon eyed him. Cast a slow, thoughtful glance at Simon’s Metal Vessel. _Baal’s_ Metal Vessel.

_Baal, master of Lightning_. Ja’far had to smile, subtle and sharp as a dagger in the dark.

Oh good. Tiburon still _frizzed_ at that. As he should.

Simon was staring at both of them.

“They’re up to something,” Malachy muttered.

“When are they not?” Simon shook his head, and held out his hand for the phone. “May I?”

* * *

“I do not believe this.”

Floyd Biegen looked up from rifling through the ominously well-stocked backpack, impatient for answers. He’d gotten up here as fast as he could after interviewing some of the other firemen, but his younger partner had already been wrapping up the phone conversation and there’d been no reasonable way to break in.

_Damn it. Things are going to get tense. If I can’t sit the boy wonder down and explain what’s going on_ -

Domingo stared at the closed phone, and shook his head. “Apparently we have three teenagers running around this city, trying to rescue a kidnapped girl.”

_Teenagers?_ Floyd thought, automatically hiding the urge to tense at the thought of the impossible security footage stills that’d been dropped into his private inbox. He’d seen the Toolmakers pull some nifty tricks in their time, but that craziness with the roof and the fire - no wonder it’d landed on the top of his unofficial to-do list. _Wait, teenagers; the lighting’s lousy, but they could have been slight enough to be - no, couldn’t be_. “Descriptions?”

Domingo didn’t even look at the notes he’d taken. “Fifteen, brown and hazel; fifteen, red and brown; and fourteen, blue and blue.”

“Not funny, Dom,” Floyd said dryly.

“Not laughing.” Domingo’s face was perfectly straight. Of course. “Apparently Mr. Cavins insists that yes, his cousin’s hair _is_ blue. Can’t miss it.”

Teenagers. Of course. “And they didn’t contact the FBI before now because?” Floyd said archly.

“The girl may be undocumented.”

_Oh, hell_. “Civilians!” Floyd _tsk_ ed. “No surprise they only ask for help _after_ they’ve blundered into trouble....” He trailed off, at Domingo’s very peculiar look. “Dom?”

“I’ve asked you not to-” Domingo cut himself off, frustrated. “I don’t think they intended to ask for help.” He frowned. “Mr. MacLea seemed more annoyed his niece hadn’t brought them along.”

“Crazy civilians, then.” Floyd didn’t have to fake rubbing at a headache. “Well, none of us can choose our relatives, can we? Let’s get names and descriptions on the kids out there-”

“No!” Domingo took a breath, and composed himself. “I don’t think that would be wise. We should handle this quietly. If we can.”

“We have minors in danger,” Floyd pointed out. “Quiet is the last thing they need. Who are we looking for?”

If it had been him, Floyd knew, he would have deflected the conversation. Maybe addressed some small but crucial question to the station chief who’d just walked in again, obviously itching to get FBI agents out of _his_ fire station. But Domingo was a responsible junior agent, who actually believed all the oaths he swore were set in stone, instead of more like... guidelines.

_Ernesto, you’re a great guy, but your cousin is so straight-laced he’s almost suicidal_.

“The redhead is Morgan MacLea, fifteen,” Domingo said reluctantly. “There’s Aladdin Cavins, fourteen. And both Mr. Cavins and Mr. MacLea are convinced their wards are going to find this girl no matter who’s in their way.” He paused. “They’re with Alan Ryans.”

_Son of a bitch!_

“Anne’s kid is here?” Chief Lohan started; then tugged at his uniform collar, smile crooked and exasperated. “Guess we know who picked the lock.”

“He’s never been charged,” Domingo started.

“Oh, sure, Agent, he’s never been _charged_.” Lohan rolled his eyes. “The Mouse in Sneakers. That kid couldn’t draw a straight line if you slapped him with a ruler.” He glanced at the sprinklers again, eyes narrowed in speculation. “Huh.”

“Did you have a lead on the heat source?” Domingo pounced.

“Eh? No, wish I did,” the chief grumbled. “Some of the guys are wondering if some moron put a soldering torch on a stick, or something.” He eyed the sprinklers. “If Anne’s kid was here when those bastards gassed us... yeah, it’s the kind of thing a Ryans would do.”

“Is it?” Domingo looked genuinely interested.

“Of course it is.” Floyd couldn’t keep some of the sourness out of his voice. Ryans. The name was enough to put his blood pressure right through the roof. “Anne Ryans never met a fight she couldn’t run away from.”

“She wasn’t a fighter.” Chief Lohan gave him a hard look. “Can’t blame a lady for that. Single mom on her own? The kid might be a burglar but at least he’s not an _animal_. Sure, he ran. But if he did that with the sprinklers, then we owe him one.”

Floyd tried not to roll his eyes. “If he led trouble _here_ instead of to the cops, you don’t owe him anything-”

“Agent Biegen.” Lohan folded his arms. “He was here. He’s gone. Go stop the guys who gassed us.”

“We’re working on it,” Floyd smiled. Because he was.

_They’ll stop when he’s caught_.

Alan Ryans. Damn. No one had liked it when the Ryans kid disappeared, but at least he’d been _gone_. Not a problem anymore. They knew most of his contacts, and most of _their_ contacts. They could shut down Sister Thomasina’s little thorn of a sanctuary anytime. It just hadn’t been worth the hassle yet.

And then suddenly it was. Or at least, it’d been worth it for someone to snatch up that little sneak-thief Maria. Why they’d just wanted her and not the rest of the street rat crew... well, that wasn’t his problem.

Though if they’d meant to grab Ryans’ attention from wherever the kid had vanished to, they’d evidently succeeded. Spectacularly.

_The last thing we want is public notice. This is a nightmare_.

Ryans back in Boston was a wrench in what had been well-oiled works. Worse, a wrench that had apparently dragged in out-of-towners. Which made things a little more sticky.

_Civilian out-of-towners. We can handle this_. “I’ll go get some wheels turning,” Floyd said briskly, standing as he shoved the pack Domingo’s direction. “In the meantime, Dom... look through this, and tell me what you think.”

For once, his partner looked rebellious. “I need to go meet them-”

“We will,” Floyd smiled. “I just need to make some calls.”

_Calm down_ , Floyd thought, heading downstairs to get some time to think. _Ryans is a fifteen-year-old-kid. How much damage can he do?_

Unfortunately, he was _Anne Ryans’_ kid, and she’d come within inches of blowing the whole Toolmaker arrangement sky-high.

_Damn that woman!_

He’d honestly thought her death had been a lucky accident. Only after Domingo had found that damned thumbprint, and another search had found Mariñelarena’s body, had Floyd realized what must have happened.

_Maria. Idiot coyote never got over her staging a breakout. He must have figured out the Ryans knew where she was. Moron. She couldn’t talk; why not leave her alone and go get more kids? Not like there’s a shortage_.

Floyd still couldn’t figure out _why_ the girl had led a breakout. Outside of maybe the same Latin temper and cussedness that had had her louse of a father hunting her down. None of the kids the Toolmakers hosted were hurt. None of them were abused. Heck, he’d never seen so much as a scratch on them that wasn’t self-inflicted. They were just... kept. Quietly. For whatever it was the Toolmakers needed to create their detectors.

_They work, and we need them. There is no way - no damn way - to scan every damn container passing through our ports for radiation. Not with conventional tech_.

He didn’t know how the Toolmakers did what they did, and frankly, he didn’t care. What they had _worked_ , and their devices had caught various unfriendly things in half a dozen cities already. None of which _probably_ would have been lethal... but probably wasn’t definitely, and if the public ever found out the federal government had had access to technology that could have kept a dirty bomb from going off and hadn’t used it, there would be blood in the streets. People would get fired. People would lose elections. People would die.

Besides. If the Toolmakers could find bombs, Floyd would be willing to bet they could _hide_ them. And everything he’d learned about them said they’d been around a long, long time, long enough to be the bluest blood Boston had, and they liked their little comforts. If they weren’t working for the Feds, they might have to find... other employers.

Anne Ryans had been willing to throw that all away. Just to expose a petty little matter of street kids who shouldn’t even be loose in the country. Who didn’t have to _be_ on the street, if they’d just played smart and did what they were told.

From what he’d seen, no Ryans could _ever_ do what they were told.

And fifteen or not, Alan was young, not stupid. There was always the chance he’d found something his mother had dug up, and just hadn’t had the chance to do anything about it before he’d come down with that not-Ebola... whatever it was. And he’d have a ready, listening ear, because now that Floyd knew he hadn’t just keeled over in a handy alley, the kid must have snuck out of Boston _somehow_.

_Domingo. Must have been. Damn it_.

Meaning his young, naive partner was neither as young nor as naive as his cousin Ernesto would like to believe.

_This is going to be a problem_.

Lucky for him, he had people to call about Problems.

“Biegen,” he told the voice that picked up on the other end of the call. “I need to talk to... what do you mean, he’s busy? _What fires?_ ”

* * *

_Two-twenty-nine, two-twenty-eight_.... It was hard to hear anything over the yelling and the fire alarms going off, but Alan barely had to get Aladdin’s nod as his hand drifted over the right bus locker. The small glints of rukh he could see were shying from here like startled birds, and dark with sadness.

_Got you_.

Right hand on sealed steel. Left just brushing over the locker vents, as he drew on candle-practice to move fire magoi across and out-

Black smoke puffed from the locker.

Beside him Aladdin whispered a few quiet words, whipping air in to feed the fires to the point that tan paint started to blacken, and smoke was chased out by ripples of almost colorless flame.

In the corner of his eye, rukh started to shimmer silver.

Alan glanced at Aladdin. The magi winked back, then ducked under a businessman’s scolding arm. “So sorry we’re going thanks!”

Alan latched onto him, and let the panicked crowd shove them out the station doors toward where Morgan and Maria were waiting. _Three down. Wonder how many there are to go?_

Even in the shadows of a coffeshop awning, red hair shone like a beacon next to dark curly brown. Alan homed in on it, glad he hadn’t lost all his crowd-swimming skills in a few weeks down South.

Maria slumped against Morgan with relief, water sloshing in the oversized rubber boots they’d managed to pick up from a thrift shop. Morgan gripped her shoulder in reassurance, glancing past the boys for any hint of a tail. The literally running water Maria’s boots gave her ought to damp any magical tracking, and thanks to Aladdin checking her over for electricity the bug in Maria’s collar was now decorating a busy intersection, but there were always mundane eyes. And by this time the local fire departments had to have realized they were going to have a very long day. They’d be looking for firebugs. “Are we done here?” Morgan asked.

“Done,” Aladdin nodded briskly, blue eyes lighting up at the spicy waft of fried chicken from the bags the girls were carrying. “Lunch?”

“After we get to some high ground.” Alan took a breath, and took the lead again; one street, two, and there was a good empty fire escape....

Morgan eyed it and the cover from the surrounding buildings, and nodded approval. A minute later they were perched in a nest of black-painted steel, tearing into what was either early lunch or late breakfast, depending who you asked.

_Central back to Eastern Time Zone_ , Alan thought, glancing at his watch. _Guess I was down there just long enough to get thrown off_.

“So....” Maria dismembered an orange before she ate it, not meeting Alan’s gaze. “You are burning these things? Destroying them?”

“Sometimes melting them,” Aladdin put in. “Depends on what they’re made of.” For a moment, his smile had a determined edge. “I _really_ like being a Fire magician.”

“No kidding.” Alan had to shudder. “I’m just getting the edges of the magoi we set loose, and... it’s bad.” He glanced at Morgan. “Really bad. You can feel... whoever it came from, it was so sad-”

Morgan’s hand gripped his arm, sudden and fierce. “Stay with us. _Don’t_ get too close.” Garnet eyes narrowed at him. “You know what can happen. I know you care. But these aren’t _your_ people. Bleeding for them won’t save them. If you want to help them, you have to stay in one piece.”

“They are my people.” Alan didn’t try to pry off her hand. She had reasons to be worried. “As much as anybody in this whole state. They’re Maria’s people. And she’s... I promised.”

Because he wasn’t sure. He thought he knew who he’d seen, standing in the rukh over Maria like a ghostly guardian demon. But he wasn’t _sure_.

_I’m not failing our little sister. Not twice_.

“What does she mean?” Maria’s eyes were wide. “Why would being close hurt you? It - it never has before....”

“He wasn’t whole before,” Aladdin said plainly. “His rukh was hurt, so he always protected it. Like curling up around a wound. Now he’s healing, so he can do more and... well, kings can be vulnerable to their people’s pain.” He folded his arms and gave Alan an up-and-down scowl; the effect slightly dampened by a smear of chicken grease near his chin. “You can be a lot more vulnerable than most. And Ja’far says you’re still hurt. Stay with us, okay? I know you want to help people with their pain. And I think I fixed the rukh so people _can’t_ Fall anymore. But... I really don’t want to find that out the hard way.”

Maria was quiet for a moment. “...He thinks you are a king?”

“Roll with it,” Alan advised.

“Augh.” Aladdin thumped his head back against bricks. “It’s not my fault the rukh says _h’reg_ is _king!_ ”

Maria looked between them, then at Morgan, apparently hoping to find someone semi-sane. “Who is this rukh?”

“The rukh aren’t a who.” Morgan gestured where Aladdin was looking - where she likely only saw empty air. “The rukh are the flow of life.”

“The butterflies,” Alan said firmly, waving at one of the wisps he could see. “Aladdin can talk to them.” _Careful, keep it casual, this is a minefield. She tried to tell me, but I didn’t_ know. _I couldn’t see it. Not then. Just the results_. “He says all magicians can. Some just have to listen harder.”

“They really don’t like those Tools,” Aladdin reflected. “But when the rukh saw us destroying this bunch... they knew something.” He frowned. “Some of them are just meant to drain magoi. But some - I couldn’t figure it out. They’re... things to look for something horrible?” He glanced at Maria.

She paled, covering her mouth with her hands with the ragged heave of someone an inch from throwing up.

“Sorry. I’m sorry!” Aladdin said quickly, patting her shoulder. “I know you can’t talk about it. Whatever put that hole in your memories... when we get you out of here, we’ll find help.”

A “hrrk?” made it past her fingers.

“If we don’t know how to do it we’ll find someone who can,” Aladdin stated, arms crossed as if there was no way the world could argue with him. “And if we really can’t - I bet there’s a way we could talk to Belial.”

“Um,” Alan managed. Seeing Morgan’s eyes just as wide as his. Because yes, if anyone had the power to unravel some kind of mental binding, the Djinn of Truth and Conviction could do it. But - eep. “Ah. That would mean....” Raising Belial’s tower. And conquering his dungeon. When _they_ hadn’t conquered it the first time, Hakuryuu and Judal had, and that had been all _kinds_ of ugly.

“Better to find another way,” Morgan agreed.

Maria finally managed to breathe without heaving. “Belial?”

“Long and scary story,” Alan summed up. “Tell you later. A lot later.” Hopefully never. Because Aladdin had the oddest _speculative_ look in his eye, and a magi with a plan could be hazardous to anyone in the vicinity. _Aladdin_ with a plan....

Actually, if Aladdin had a plan involving Belial, he’d hear the magi out. Hopefully with the intent of shooting it full of holes, Djinn that could work illusions were _really scary_ , but he would hear Aladdin out.

_There’s another magi out there raising dungeons, after all. Probably Yunan, and if he’s still like what I remember he_ probably _won’t pull up more without a good reason. But there are two other Magi who’ve either just been born, or soon will be. Al-Thamen had Judal raising towers when he was ten. Who knows what might happen?_

Well, whatever might happen he hoped Belial _didn’t_ happen anytime soon. Because illusions. Mind control. Ack.

And that was an _interested_ crackle of flame in his head, and no. Just no. _Amon!_

: _My brother Djinn was gravely injured when Hakuryuu Fell,_ : Amon reminded him. : _Ugo did his best to care for Belial’s wounds, but there are hurts that tear the spirit as well as the rukh. Did I have the chance, I would wish to ensure he was well_.:

_Fair enough_ , Alan admitted. _Just don’t ask me to like it, okay?_

Though if Zepar showed up again, he just might have to do something drastic. Like, say, knock Simon out and sit on him, until Aladdin could shove the dungeon back to Alma Torran and make it _stay_ there.

_I bet Ja’far would help.... Focus_. “Something horrible,” Alan stated, eyeing Aladdin. “Any idea what kind of horrible?”

Aladdin shook his head. “Something people can’t see. Something that hurts them. Kills them.”

“Oh, that leaves a lot of ground open,” Alan muttered. He could see the way Aladdin was biting his lip. “You don’t think we should destroy them.”

“Yes... no... I don’t know!” Aladdin flung up his hands. “I don’t want more people to get hurt!”

“Then we have to destroy them.” Alan wove his fingers together, hoping he knew how to say this right. Praying this didn’t stab them both too deeply. “Aladdin. What went wrong in Balbadd-”

Aladdin was waving his hands frantically. “This isn’t Balbadd, you don’t have to think about that-!”

“What went wrong in Balbadd, is it got in the way of people who were only thinking about the future,” Alan said bluntly. “The nobles wanted to be rich and powerful forever. The street people... after the Empire rolled in, they just wanted to let someone else take care of the worrying. Sinbad wanted an ally propped up so he could use it to attack the Kou Empire later. The Empire wanted to conquer the whole world so they’d have peace - _later_. And all of them said what they were doing _now_ was fine, was just what had to get done. Because the future was going to be _so much better_.” He paused. “And none of them cared that they were looking at that future standing on a pile of corpses.”

“You cared,” Aladdin said quietly. “You always cared. That’s why....”

_That’s why I chose you_. _Not to be the king of a country. To be a king who gives hope to the world_.

“I know,” Alan said softly. “I remember.” He straightened, and hoped he didn’t look completely ridiculous. “None of us knows what could happen. The future’s out there; we’ll see it when we get there. What we’ve got is _now._ And right now, we know people are being hurt. Maria’s relatives, who knows who else - they’re being _drained_ to make these. I don’t care how hard it’s been to move magoi in this world; if people want magic bad enough, they should use their own. Or ask someone else, and tell them what they’re giving up, and why. They didn’t _ask_ Maria. She got away. And they kidnapped her to drain her _again_. They’re not taking volunteers.”

“I know, but,” Aladdin winced, “if they’re trying to protect someone....”

“Would you want to be protected that way?” Morgan fixed her gaze on him, then glanced to each of them in turn. “Would any of us?”

“...No,” Aladdin said quietly. “I just... people might die if we do this.”

“People are dying.” Maria shivered. “I saw. I... I can’t say, but- I _saw_. The littlest. The weak ones. They....”

“I know,” Aladdin said tightly. “I’ve seen it. A long time ago. Far away from here. I didn’t ever want to see it again.” He rubbed his arms, even if it was still a hot day. “At least we know it’s not a whole kingdom doing it this time....”

Scribbling notes on locker numbers and the last few locations they’d fried, Alan felt three stares settle on him. “Um. Hi?”

“We’re _not_ facing a whole kingdom,” Morgan said flatly.

“Oh hell no,” Alan said in a rush. “We need to keep moving, so we might as well keep frying caches until it’s dark and we can make a run for the airport. We are _not_ going to try and swat all of these guys. There’s too many of them. We couldn’t take them down without killing people... oh, not the disappointed kitty look, you are _illegally_ cute... I should just shut up now....”

Aladdin was looking between them with widening eyes, throat working in a gulp. “We’re up against a kingdom?”

“We’re up against a lot of people,” Alan said soberly. Tucked the pencil into his notepad pages, to lift fingers at each point. “There’s all the guys who were in that warehouse waiting for us. There’s the guys who came after us in the firehouse - and maybe those were some of the same guys, but if they were they got themselves straightened out and geared up _real_ quick. There’s however many people it takes to keep control over all the kids Maria got out - and there have to be more than that, because we know,” he flicked a glance at her, and tried not to wince, “we know you didn’t get everyone.”

Maria shook her head. “They were afraid. I was, too, but... I don’t know why I could run. I was so afraid.”

“You’re strong,” Morgan nodded. “Stronger than you think.” Garnet flicked at him. “How many?”

“I honestly have no idea,” Alan admitted. “If this were Balbadd, I could tell you, down to the streets they’d have to be on to grease the guards’ palms to stay quiet. Here? I can tell you where the hookers are and who’s dealing drugs and who’s got a numbers game running out of the alley, but Mom-” He had to stop. Take a breath. “Mom and I were just getting the _edges_ of this. It’s deep and it’s big and _somebody’s making money_. Someone _has_ to be. You can’t rent a warehouse that size for spare change. Place that big, in Boston proper? We’re talking a quarter-mil a _year_. Easy. And that’s not even counting all the equipment we wrecked.”

“A quarter of a....” Morgan _stared_ at him.

Solemn, Alan nodded.

Aladdin looked very, very thoughtful. “That’s a lot?”

“That’s probably as much as my father makes in a year, more or less,” Alan shrugged. “Add in how much it costs to house and feed prisoners, the fees for lockers and hideout safes and that back-room storage we burned out, the bribes for the DMV, the salaries for tough guys, who do not come cheap... we’re up against people making a _lot_ of money.” _Breathe. Do not pass out_. “So, if you’re asking, are we up against a small kingdom? Yes. Yes, we are.” He had to hug himself, because maybe Maria was looking at him like a gift from heaven, but right now he didn’t feel brave at all. “So we’re going to keep moving so they don’t find us, until it’s dark enough we can fly into the airport and smuggle ourselves the hell _out_ of here. This is too big for just us. We need... we need help.”

Morgan shifted so she could lean her shoulder against his. “Uncle Malachy will help us.”

“Uncle Simon will, too,” Aladdin said firmly. “We just need to tell them.”

“So we steal a phone,” Maria nodded. Blinked at his look, and shrugged, just a little sheepish. “Borrow?”

“We’ll find something,” Alan said wryly. Turned toward Aladdin. “So where’s our next hit?”

* * *

“I’m not sure this is the best idea, Magister,” Phaenomena murmured, lips not moving.

_Neither am I_ , Callimachus thought, staring across the dining table of this very private room at the Locke Parisien, eye to eye with the current public leader of the Shays family; better known to most in the shadows as the _Toolmakers_. Franklin Shays might not look like much besides a fair-haired, well-coifed new generation of old money, but the rukh whispered around him as strongly as most modern magicians and the humorless bodyguards fading into the shadows of the room were well-armed with weapons both magical and brutally mundane. Without Phaenomena standing behind him, the alchemist would have to give himself no better than even odds on getting out of their clutches in one piece.

With her... well. He had information they wanted. And the Shays knew enough of how old he was to know he was probably too wary to trap. Probably.

_And I am, at the moment, a bit low on stored tricks_ , Callimachus knew. _Enough to protect the two of us, yes. Enough to catch and hold those three terrors? No_.

Distasteful as it was, the Toolmakers were one of the few options for obtaining premade Magic Tools. Though if he’d known before now exactly _how_ those tools were made....

_Brutal_. Wasteful. _Potential magicians, even if weak ones, and they_ -

Callimachus kept his face straight, tamping down disgust. Catch the young bluebird magician, extract Solomon’s Wisdom from him, learn how to reshape magic to _his_ will - and the Toolmakers could then be crushed.

Until then... needs must, as the old saying went.

“So.” Franklin Shays dabbed at his lips with a napkin, then casually dropped it beside his plate. “You came seeking one of our specimens for your bait. And now you think you can tell us how to deal with our... minor difficulty.”

“A minor difficulty that has currently garnered you the attention of the police, the FBI, and the entire Boston Fire Department,” Callimachus said dryly. “And if you think it’s going to stop here, you are gravely mistaken. You are not dealing with an ordinary magician. You’re dealing with a being who has _none_ of the limits on magic either of us are used to.” He leaned back in his chair, presenting an image of calm unconcern. “And if he is what I think he may be... magoi-draining slave chains? You couldn’t have picked anything better suited to create an _inferno_ of rage.”

“A being,” Shays said flatly.

“A fire elemental,” Callimachus said blandly, lying through his teeth. The Toolmakers thought of themselves as _businessmen_. If he told them the truth of the Fire Prince - well, if he were fortunate, they would think him a senile old fool. If he weren’t, they would either shoot the boy dead or try to find a way to keep him contained for their own use. Either way, if they knew they had a myth on their hands, they’d never let an outsider at such power. “Not one of the salamanders the ancients saw in small gatherings of fire rukh. A true Spirit of Fire, that for some reason has bound itself to a human child.”

“Alan Ryans.” Shays lifted a brow slightly, as if to say, _So?_

Callimachus refrained from the modern habit of rolling his eyes. _John Adams would have done it better, you polished prat. “I yawn in your general direction,” that’s what you’d have gotten if you tried that stunt with_ real _merchants. Those who risked their own skins in the making of wealth, not preyed on others_. “The fact that you even know his name indicates the youngster is already a problem. How much more difficult will he be with an elemental to hand?”

“Not very, once we have a clear shot,” Shays said coolly. “He has a record. Petty theft, burglary, a number of nonviolent crimes.” His lip curled. “He’s a coward. The boy can’t stand the sight of blood. Especially his own.”

Behind him, Callimachus could sense Phaenomena’s stifled twitch. Alan Ryans had gone toe to toe with her in mortal combat. No coward could do that and survive. “That may have been the case a month ago,” Callimachus said with dry courtesy. “But you forget the boy’s not alone. The blue-dyed youth has the skills of a magician three times his age, and as for the redhead-”

“A girl,” Shays waved that off. And didn’t quite pale, as he looked past Callimachus.

Callimachus didn’t have to glance back to know his companion would have the most subtle, vicious smile on her face. Solomon, but it was good to have a skilled partner. “Ah. The _girl_. Yes. A mere, weak fifteen-year-old girl... who comes from a family that literally _lives_ to fight.”

“A Red Lion,” Phaenomena said quietly. “I’m sure your organization has heard of them. If only as people to stay away from.”

“No magoi, and thus no magic; so of no use for your... purposes,” Callimachus picked up the thread. “But trained warriors, every one. And this one has decided she likes young Alan.”

“Red Lions don’t like nice boys,” Phaenomena added, almost lightly. “They want _hunting partners_.”

Callimachus gave that a heartbeat to sink in, then smiled. “And this _coward_ of a young man appears to adore her in turn. What does that tell you?”

Shays’ eyes narrowed. “Then what would you suggest?”

_If I thought I could suggest ending your whole family’s business, I would,_ Callimachus decided. _But I might, at least, keep you from wasting another magician’s life_.

“We know what he’s hunting,” Callimachus said plainly, not looking away. “We don’t need bait anymore.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gas our villains are using probably _isn’t_ diethyl ether (classic “ether”), because that is flammable. But a lot of sedative gases are ethers - and if a Djinn decides it’s gonna burn, I say it burns.
> 
> To quote Indiana Jones: “Fly, yes. _Land, no!_ ”
> 
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Safe_Place
> 
> Based mostly in the Midwest - which is why Dom thinks of it, yet it never crosses Alan’s mind. Community buildings such as fire stations and libraries are designated as “Safe Place” sites; a kid can walk into one, ask an employee for help, and get directed to a youth center.


	19. Poking Sleeping Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul-sucking ambushes, and nicknames. 
> 
> ...For Domingo, the nicknames might be the worst part.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my betas has RL hands full, so I may end up rewriting parts of this chapter later. But I think it's mostly good to go. :)

_Impossible city, impossible parking, garages are highway robbery_....

Domingo stalked out of the parking garage in what Sarah would call _full snarl mode_ , coldly angry at the world and not much caring who knew it. Teenagers. _Teenagers_ were currently scampering around Boston and its outskirts, apparently one bare step ahead of men willing to drug, maim, and kill for their goals.

He didn’t know who he was angrier at. The traffickers, the young idiots, the crew from Hancock High who’d apparently come to help but hadn’t been able to _stop them_ , or-

Well, no. He was _definitely_ angriest at Richard Silversmith. The traffickers were pure and utter evil and while an arrest would be justice, if he had a legitimate shot at them he’d take it. But he’d known they were evil. Richard....

Alan Ryans was far too old to spark the same reflexive _shield the child_ he felt around Matt. But the first time Domingo had been in the same room with the teen, he’d been clinging to life in a hospital bed, pale and fierce and refusing to die. Helping Silversmith smuggle Alan out of the state had been one of the longest shots he’d taken in his career. If it hadn’t worked-

But it had. Richard’s short updates on the boy’s condition said he was recovering well. And now _this_.

_Help Cavins find them, make sure they’re in one piece, and get them all back out of the state_ , Domingo told himself. _Then I can deal with the case, and... whatever’s up with Biegen_.

He was oddly looking forward to being able to snarl at someone he didn’t have to work with. And Cavins definitely sounded snarl-worthy.

_“You’ll know us when you see us,”_ Cavins had smirked over the phone. _“Malachy’s the redheaded glower making innocent bystanders scurry for cover, and I’m the one with purple hair.”_

“Oh, just purple hair?” Domingo had said dryly. “Why not seven-league boots while you’re at it, Master Cat?”

Which he hadn’t meant to say, but honestly. Matt was just the age for fairytales and derring-do, and Cavins’ oddly persuasive brand of insanity had reminded him of that indomitable feline. _‘Say these lands belong to the Marquis of Carabas, or I shall cut you up into mincemeat.’_

_“Hah!”_ Cavins had chuckled. _“I’ll have to tell a friend about that one. He just might be able to do it.”_

Do _what_ , Cavins hadn’t specified, and Domingo hadn’t quite wanted to ask. Because seven-league boots were insane....

_Fiery holes cut in warehouse roofs are insane. Directed fire setting off sprinklers is insane. Melted steel is insane_.

Being worried his own partner might be in league with human smugglers... unfortunately, that wasn’t insane. Very depressing, and it bespoke a certain paranoia on his part, but Floyd had just left him with too many questions lately-

His phone rang.

_Sarah?_ Domingo thought, noting the simple musical chime he’d picked for his home phone. _Why would she call now_ -

The tone cut off.

A chill went down his spine. Sarah wouldn’t call without reason, and she never called anyone by accident. He had to call back, find out what was going on, _get there_ -

“Hey there, partner.”

Stepping through the crowd, Floyd gripped his wrist like steel.

_No_ , Domingo thought, head suddenly swimming. _There’s steel... on me...._

Steel wrapped in cloth, marked with subtle symbols. _Familiar_ symbols. Terrifyingly familiar, from a photo on a lost girl’s phone.

_I can’t think... what_ is _this thing? How is it doing this?_

“Come with me,” Floyd’s smile was tight. “And don’t argue.”

He - couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come. Even though they rose in his blood like fury. _How are you doing this,_ why _are you doing this, what the hell is going on!_

He couldn’t voice them. All he could do was follow the tug of Floyd’s hand on his steel-cuffed wrist, and try not to stumble over his own feet.

_This - this is not good_. All Domingo’s thoughts were disjointed, like he’d been dumped soaking wet into freezing winter. _This - I saw these cut in the warehouse, on the roof - if I could I’d slice it to pieces, this thing is killing me-!_

... _It_ is _killing me_.

He didn’t know how he knew. He could feel it as Floyd walked him away from crowds and hope, sucking at his strength like an unnatural leech. Something that would batten on his very soul, and never loose its fangs until he dropped.

_He’s getting us out of sight... have to stop him!_

“Ah, _no_ ,” Floyd said sharply, shoving his shoulder under Domingo’s as he tried to trip and fall. “You’re going to come and listen to me. And you’re not going to give me any trouble.”

Shaking his head, dazed, Domingo thought he saw a drift of purple in the crowd. “No more than the Marquis of Carabas-”

“Be. Quiet.”

Another shove, and they were between buildings, fall heat cut by the shadows. Domingo stared at a torn gray egg carton that had ended up here somehow, and leaned against a wall as his knees weakened.

_Think. I have to think... get out of this somehow_....

“I didn’t want to do this,” Floyd was grumbling under his breath. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you? Just _had_ to poke your nose in where it doesn’t belong. Trafficking’s Homeland Security, you moron! Couldn’t you leave it to Ernesto? _He_ knows what he’s doing.”

“Take children across state lines... it _is_ our problem,” Domingo got out. “We’re FBI. Doesn’t matter... if they’re citizens. If they’re kidnapped-”

“Of course it matters!” Floyd let go to fling up his hands, obviously satisfied his partner was in no shape to go anywhere. “This is more important than just some loser kids! This is life and death. Our lives. The whole country’s lives. Your family’s lives-”

“Sarah,” Domingo gritted out. _And Matt - you unrepentant bastard, if you’ve harmed my son-!_

“They’re safe,” Floyd shrugged. “For now.”

Domingo saw red, fingers gripping bricks as if he’d tear through mortar and stone. _I’ll kill you for this, Floyd. Somehow, someway, I’ll bring you crashing down_.

“Just relax. You can’t fight the cuffs. No one can.” Floyd shook his head. “Still don’t know how those pyromaniac kids can cut them-”

“Alan,” Domingo demanded, even if his lungs heaved with the effort. “Ryans... is causing the fires? How...?”

“Security cameras, what else? Our allies have the _good_ ones. Oh yeah, he’s on them,” Floyd said dryly. “And once we catch him, he’s never seeing the light of day again. Do you have any idea what he and his little friends have destroyed? No, no, of course you don’t, you’re _Midwest FBI_. Saints and angels. Well this is _Boston_ , Saint Dominguez. Fourteen million metric tons of cargo coming through a year, and any of it might be a bomb. _Any_ of it. Only nobody’s gotten a bomb through this port. Or any others. You think that’s an accident? _It’s not_.”

It didn’t make sense. Or possibly more terrifying, it did. “Ernesto knows about the trafficking?”

“Oh no,” Floyd chuckled, sweaty and nervous. “We’re not going to talk about that. Let’s just say, there are arrangements. And you’re not going to mess with those arrangements, Dom. Not if you want everything to go... smoothly.”

“You took my family,” Domingo stated, fire crackling in his blood. “There’s no way back from-”

“It’s going to be fine!” Floyd almost spat. “If you don’t _screw it up_.”

_He wants to believe that_ , Domingo thought. _He has to know it’s a lie. Kidnapping an agent’s family? No matter who owes Ernesto favors, the agency would never rest so long as the perpetrators were out there_....

Unless there were no kidnappers left to catch.

_They’re going to kill me. They’re going to kill my family_.

_They’re going to kill you too, Floyd, can’t you see that?_

“It’s going to be fine,” Floyd repeated, brushing off his suit lapels. “As long as I keep you out of the way while people clean up the mess.”

_The hell you will_. Domingo tried to take a deep breath, even as the draining ache on his wrist made the world spin. _Like blood loss... running out of time. Need to get him closer_. He slumped against the bricks, sliding slowly down.

“Hey.” Floyd actually sounded startled. “Are you... bleeding?”

Warm and wet down his face, Domingo realized. The coppery taste of blood. Floyd hadn’t laid a hand on him, so how-?

Evidently the rogue agent was wondering exactly that. Floyd frowned, bending close for a look....

Domingo lunged, fighting weakness with a fury that burned down his nerves like flame. Jab under the ribs, use Floyd’s gasp and flinch to seize hair and throat-

_Die, you bastard, die! I won’t make it out of here but Sarah might have a chance-!_

_“Bararaq Sei!”_

The world whited out.

...Faded back in, swimming slowly around him as if he’d been dropped underwater.

_“Simon! Cut that off him, now!”_

Hands seized his cuffed wrist, and hesitated. _“Ja’far, this is a cutlass, not a bolt-cutter....”_

_“It’s Baal’s Vessel,”_ a third voice put in, more calmly. _“It may not be Amon’s Sword, but it’ll cut steel. Malachy, what are you-”_

There was an interesting thud.

_“Hmph.”_ A fourth voice, low and somehow familiar, for all the words were ancient and strange. _“Didn’t stay shocked. Counter charm?”_

_“We’ll sort it out in a minute.”_ Purple hair fluttered in his view. Simon Cavins? “Domingo. Agent Dominguez? Stay still, I need to-”

Metal sheared with an odd, low burr through his bones, and Domingo could breathe again. He blinked, trying to figure out why his eyelids wanted to stick together. It was like looking through a film of red....

“Are you sure that’s Agent Dominguez?” That third, calm voice; wryly amused. “I mean, it’d be a... um.”

“Very convenient coincidence?” Ja’far sighed.

“...Right.” The next words were muffled, as if the man had clapped a hand over his face in frustrated amusement. “Why do I even ask?”

“Well, of course he is, Tiburon,” Cavins said cheerfully. “I know voices. Though I didn’t think you were that close to the phone, Ja’far-”

“I recognized him.”

Domingo tried to blink again. Because if he’d ever seen any of these people in his life, he didn’t remember it.

“You- oh. _Oh_.” And that was utter glee from Cavins, of the kind Domingo hadn’t heard since the last time Matt had pounced on his Easter basket. “Oh... damn it, tell me later. Because _ow_. That has to hurt. Hold still, Agent, I have some water... Domingo. Dominguez. What were your parents thinking? There _has_ to be a better name. One that actually fits someone willing to tear a man’s throat out with his bare hands - you came damn close, I don’t think he’s going to be talking above a whisper for weeks. Definitely need a better name. Domi, Domino-”

A damp cloth squished water into his eyes, and the red washed away from the world. “ _Don’t_ call me Dom,” Domingo gritted out. “He’s alive?”

“And you might be interested in seeing him stay that way.” The slim man in a casual gray sweatshirt and linen - Ja’far? - rose from a cursory examination of the agent in a dour redhead’s well-muscled grip. A small, cold smile crossed his face, swift as a dove’s shadow. “After all, death is quick. Having a good lawyer tear him and all his self-justifications to bleeding shreds? That will last a _very long time_.”

“And we just happen to know a good lawyer,” Cavins pointed out cheerfully.

The third voice chuckled, green eyes glancing at Domingo from under wild dark hair. “Yes we do. And after he gets finished chewing Alan out for scaring him out of a year’s growth with this little adventure, I think he’ll take our dirty agent here apart _pro bono_.”

Domingo blinked, eyes still a little sticky. _Swords. They’re carrying swords_. Which wasn’t the least of the oddities in their appearance, but one thing at a time. “You know Richard?”

“Of course we do,” Cavins said confidently, helping him sit up a little more. “Ja’far? I think I could just lend him-”

“Once someone’s bleeding from the eyes, they need more than just a magoi infusion.” Ja’far crossed the alley silent as a snake, gray eyes worried. “Unless they’re Fanalis. Or a very stubborn youngster who never learned how to die.”

_A youngster_.... Domingo touched his face, coming away with drops of blood-stained water. _I was bleeding. From my eyes?_ “This - this is what happened to Alan?”

“Close enough,” Cavins allowed. “You did save his life, you know. If he’d stayed up here, where the whole world’s flow was against him....” Bound back with leather and silver, a long tail of violet hair brushed silk-clad shoulders as he shook his head. “Explanations in a bit. Right now, sit still, and let Ja’far work his magic.”

His hand was warm and supporting; Domingo had to quell an urge to turn and bite it. “My family!”

“We know,” the green-eyed swordsman said firmly. “We were listening. We’ll find them - _after_ you can stand and come with us.” He waved a flamboyant hand; as if he were the one in Simon’s white and violet silk, or the redhead’s vaguely Arabian cloud-blue jacket and dark trousers, instead of jeans and a tattered dark sweatshirt over something shimmery green. “I’m Tiburon. You’re leaning on Simon. The slightly cross redhead keeping your ex-partner contained is Malachy. And the itty-bitty ninja with the pencil about to make you better is Ja’far.”

_Pencil?_

“I am not a ninja.” Ja’far lifted what, indeed, looked very much like a mechanical pencil, if one topped with an odd assortment of tumbled rocks under the eraser.

_Rocks don’t glow purple_.

The ache in his eyes, in his bones, like a gnawing weariness of fever... stopped. Domingo drew one breath. Another.

_It doesn’t hurt_.

“ _Now_ you can do a transfer.” Ja’far clipped the pencil back to the collar of his shirt. “You have more magoi to spare than any of us.”

“Yes,” Cavins mused, not letting go of Domingo’s shoulder as the agent rose. “Especially after you pulled - exactly what were those lightning-snakes on your knives?”

“...I’ll explain later?”

“He will, if I have to sit on him,” Tiburon reassured the cutlass-wearing maniac, one fist at his jeaned hip in a jaunty swashbuckler’s pose. “After all, he _explained_ to me why it _won’t be a problem_....”

It might have been his imagination, but Domingo thought he saw Ja’far’s ghost of a flinch. Granted, what he was really looking at was the pencil. Just in case there was a tiny hypodermic in that innocent casing. He hadn’t felt a needle, but it had to be a better explanation than magic. Didn’t it?

The not-ninja cleared his throat, and nodded at Cavins. “Do it. Odds are the slavers will have more of those cuffs, and if the agent gets hit again he’ll go down for good-”

“Do _what?_ ” Domingo demanded.

Cavins grinned, and settled his fingers more firmly on Domingo’s shoulder. “This.”

And the world almost whited out again, lost in hurricane winds and lightning....

Fingers left his shoulder, and Domingo almost staggered. Not from dizziness. He’d never felt more clear-headed in his life. “What did you just do?” _I feel - well. Whole. Ready to fight. How?_

“Well, if I said _magic_ , you’d stop listening,” Cavins said wryly. “So. Why don’t we just say, the same thing these traffickers manipulate to make mind-controlling cuffs?”

Domingo opened his mouth to protest... and closed it again. Because he didn’t know how Floyd had been able to control him with that cuff. But he had. Not perfectly, not something that couldn’t be fought - but it’d almost killed him to do it.

Suddenly his partner’s legendary _persuasion_ of suspects had an entirely new and frightening explanation.

“But this energy costs,” Cavins went on, low and quiet. “If you’re moral, it only costs _you_. If you’re not... you can make other people pay the price.” He pointed to the sliced cuff on the alley stones. “If you can get something like that on them to suck them dry.”

Domingo stared at the cuff, adding up what he knew, what Floyd had tried to convince him of, what he’d _felt_. “The illegals. They’re trafficking them in to... to _make_ things.”

Cavins nodded.

“...They have my family.”

“You have a fairly high energy level,” Cavins said bluntly. “So if your question is, will our enemies drain them too - I hate to say it, but the answer is _yes_.” He held up a hand before Domingo could move. “The good news is, if they think Floyd is keeping you out of the way, then your family is alive. People like you and I... we _know_ when one of ours is hurt. _They_ know that, too. Until they plan to put you down for good, they won’t hurt your family.”

“Like you and I, Cavins?” Domingo snorted. “We’re nothing alike!”

“Aren’t we?” Cavins’ gaze met his like a devil on holiday; brazen and about to commit chaos, yet serious as death. “We’re both here to make things right. No matter what it costs us.”

Domingo swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “I...”

“Call me Simon,” that violet-haired devil suggested. “And what on _earth_ should I call you? Agent Smith? Tch, no... besides, we don’t have time to get agencies involved. Even if they believed us - you saw what Floyd was able to do with just one Tool. What do you think their makers have in the armory?”

“It doesn’t matter if they’d believe you,” Domingo said heavily. “If my cousin Ernesto is involved in this... part of Homeland Security is, too.” _Who can I trust? Can I trust anyone? My family - I can’t find them alone, but you’re civilians._ Crazy _civilians_ -

“Drakon,” Ja’far said thoughtfully.

Domingo twitched as Simon and Tiburon’s attention suddenly snapped back to him. Red brows rose, as Malachy followed their lead. Four sets of eyes on him; five, if you counted his woozy ex-partner. The agent gritted his teeth, and did his best to stare right back.

“We’re dealing with high-level corruption. Things would go much better if people don’t hear your actual name,” Ja’far said calmly. “That’s what you’re worried about, isn’t it? Your family. Getting back to a normal life after all this.” He gave Domingo a wry look. “And I know Simon. If he doesn’t have an interesting option, he _will_ call you Dom, you’ll strangle him, and there will be blood _everywhere_.” _And I am not cleaning it up_ , that dry tone said.

Tiburon was looking between them as if he couldn’t decide to be delighted or run for the hills. “Are you sure? I know I was joking about it, but....”

Ja’far stood straight as steel. “Agent. Given our lives will be in your hands just as much as yours in ours - may I have your name?”

Domingo scowled, and straightened in turn. “Domingo Jacint Damián Xisco Dominguez,” he snapped. And if anyone laughed, he was going to punch them.

“Of course you are.” Ja’far arched an eyebrow at Tiburon. “Definitely him.”

“I am definitely _what?_ ” Domingo snarled, feeling seconds tick away as he dealt with insane civilians.

“You.” Ja’far’s smile was small, friendly, and pure evil.

“Him?” Tiburon said in disbelief. “But, he was-”

Gray eyes cut a look askance at the swordsman. “You didn’t think he always looked like that, did you?”

“Well, no, but....”

Simon’s hand clasped Domingo’s shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he informed the agent cheerfully. “I don’t know what they’re talking about either.”

_But you’re planning to find out_ , Domingo concluded. _Good enough_.

_Drakon_. As in dragon. Well, he was feeling as furious as any fire-breather roused from his precious hoard. It wouldn’t hurt to have a reminder why he was raging, in case common sense kicked in and tried to talk him into abandoning these madmen. Because no matter how crazy they were, they were help, and Sarah and Matt were _everything_. He was going to save them if it took his last breath to do it.

_At least it’s better than Dom_.

He drew an angry breath, and stalked to where Malachy was patiently holding his woozy ex-partner. A very gentle hold, that nonetheless would nastily dislocate Floyd’s shoulder with just a little extra pressure.

_I think I could get to like you, MacLea_. “Biegen,” Domingo said, very quietly; when what he _wanted_ to do was finish what Simon had interrupted, and tear a lying throat out with his bare hands. “Where is my family?”

“It’s not that easy,” Floyd rasped, just barely managing a whisper. “Even if I told you - they’re _protected_. You’d never get through.”

“Oh no?” Simon’s smile had all the focused delight of a daredevil about to jump Niagara Falls. “Start talking.”

* * *

_Well, at least we attacked the right guy_ , Tiburon thought practically, hovering in the back of a shady diner booth as Simon and Ja’far helped Drakon interrogate their FBI slimeball. Malachy was smiling quietly at the waitress, who seemed to think Simon’s grin and a twenty-dollar tip were more than worth leaving them alone to provide the entertainment.

_I’d help, but they’re doing fine_ , Tiburon reflected. _Simon can wind any guy up, and Ja’far can freeze even the most stubborn idiot in his tracks. All I have to do is lean in and smirk once in a while_.

Granted, the moment back in the streets he’d seen gray eyes narrow into a defend-Sindria glare, Tiburon had known they had serious trouble. And given what they’d half joked around about Dominguez... well, so far Simon hadn’t met any of Sinbad’s Generals without being eyebrows-deep in danger. Why should this one break the pattern?

And then his brain had hiccupped, right there on a Boston sidewalk, as Tiburon had belatedly realized he had no idea which General Ja’far thought they were after. Or what a reincarnation might look like. Malachy was scarily like Masrur, and Simon close enough to Sinbad to be a brother, but he and Ja’far hadn’t looked that much like their past lives.

_At least not before the Djinn stuck their magic in_ , Tiburon had reflected, following Ja’far to the nearest climbable building wall. _So the odds are at least fifty-fifty Domingo won’t, either. But male, so - Hinahoho, Spartos, or Drakon. Unless Pisti got reincarnated as a man. I wouldn’t put it past her._ “Where are we going?”

Ja’far glanced back in surprise, apparently only now realizing he’d been followed by two curious martial artists and one bouncing former actor with an _‘Is it shiny?’_ sparkle in his eyes.

The magician clapped a hand to his face, and reluctantly smiled. “Tiburon, come with me. I need you to help me set a high ambush. Simon, Malachy, make the rendezvous. I don’t think the agent will be able to talk, but he will get your attention.” Gray eyes darkened. “He’s stubborn enough to do that even if he were bleeding to death.”

“He’s injured?” Malachy pounced.

“I don’t know,” Ja’far admitted. “I’m no magi, but - the rukh is hissing. The way it did near those trapped phones.”

“Then let’s move,” Simon declared. “I don’t want to lose a friend before we’ve even found him.” He’d paused, just for a moment. “Does anyone know what Domingo looks like?”

“Follow your nose,” Tiburon had advised. “We’ll just be careful to take whoever you find down non-lethally.” Because he didn’t know the whole story behind Sinbad meeting _every_ general; Drakon and Hinahoho had crashed into Sinbad’s life years before Sharrkan had. But given the stories he had heard said Sinbad had first met Hinahoho by kill-stealing his giant sea monster, and Drakon at the end of Partevian Army press gang spear-points....

Well, he’d given it a fifty-fifty chance that Dominguez was a good guy and yet _still_ working for the wrong side.

_And even now, I’m not sure_ , Tiburon reflected now, leaning forward as Biegen tried to sidle out of describing exactly who he was working for. Again.

“This is wasting time,” Drakon gritted out. “You have your own children to rescue-”

“And they’re either tangled up with his _allies_ or setting them on fire,” Simon said, voice uncharacteristically dry as he stared Biegen down. “Because they couldn’t possibly have gotten away, right? Your... acquaintances... are just too good at what they do.”

The rotten agent glanced between the pair of them, as if he wanted to believe he’d won the argument. Tiburon kept his own tension under control. _That’s it, we’re getting somewhere, don’t blow it_....

Drakon’s shoulders slumped a hair, as if he were trying to hide defeat.

Tiburon watched Biegen puff up, and restrained the urge to bare his teeth. _Now we have him_.

* * *

Malachy watched the scum relax, and did his best to fade into the background, tiger-like. If mere pain could get him to Morgan’s side, Biegen would have been in pieces back in the alley. The only thing holding him back was the scent of pain and fury rolling off Drakon, as intense as his own. Agent Dominguez was restraining himself, even after he’d fully intended to kill the traitor; Malachy wasn’t about to interfere with a man’s decision that a live scumbag was more helpful to his family. Not _yet_.

Besides, he knew Tiburon had some amount of interrogation training, and the swordsman’s scent was keen as any hunter watching the prey step into range. Malachy could wait. Just a _little_ longer.

“Honestly, I don’t know what you want me to say,” Biegen shrugged, voice still raspy. “The- your wife and son are probably still safe. Very, very safe. And secure. They don’t screw around with security.”

“Huh.” Simon frowned, as if he couldn’t quite get it. “That warehouse looked... a little less than secure.”

For a moment Biegen’s eyes bugged, as if he were flashing back to that charred mess and finally linking it not to teenagers who might have gotten lucky, but the very _angry_ adults who’d taught them.

Malachy let the corner of his lips turn up. Just a little. Like a tiger, about to disembowel prey already brought down.

Biegen blinked fast, obviously glancing away from him to focus back on his ex-partner. “Look, I was trying to keep you from screwing up this mess any more than it already is! From dragging in innocent bystanders-”

“Innocent?” Simon gasped, clapping a hand over his heart. “Oh, how little you know us.”

Which was just enough to distract Biegen’s attention away from the cold, distilled hatred that passed over Ja’far’s face, Malachy saw. Good. Unconscious idiots didn’t answer questions.

“Those kids smashed up a million-dollar warehouse, and everything in it,” Biegen _hmph_ ed. “They’re going down. Hell, they’re probably already locked up. There are _resources_ out there you can’t even imagine.” He leveled a finger at Simon. “And if you want them locked up intact, instead of anything worse... hell, if _you_ want to get out of Boston in anything like one piece, you’d better sit down and start playing nice.”

Malachy drew a deep, scenting breath, watching Biegen’s attention suddenly jump to the predator in the room. “We are playing nice.” He licked his tongue across the top of his teeth, slow and deliberate. “We could stop.”

Biegen paled.

“In case you’re wondering, that’s his niece your allies are trying to catch,” Simon mused. “And I know those kids. They really prefer being subtle. They’d never have flattened your warehouse if there’d been a less... _flamboyant_ way to get their friend out.” His eyes narrowed, hand drifting near his cutlass. “Why take Maria in the first place? It would have been so much easier to snatch one of the rest of her gang. Alan’s a good friend; all he’d have to do is hear she needed help, and he would have come-”

“Why the hell do you even care about some thieving brat?” Biegen burst out. Glared at his ex-partner. “And why are you _letting_ him, your family-”

“You never did believe in node theory, did you?” Drakon’s voice was a low snarl. “I do. It works. If you have enough information to know what the links are.”

Tiburon shifted his shoulders; a dismissive shrug of Biegen and everything he stood for. “And you have links?”

“Ginés Mariñelarena,” Drakon said flatly. “Guatemalan. Suspected coyote. From descriptions given by those who knew him, addicted to _something_. No one quite knew what, except it was expensive. The man Anne Ryans gave her life to kill.” He paused. “Maria Mariñelarena’s father.”

Malachy whuffed a breath, feeling that jab home. So Alan’s little friend was as terrified as his own niece. Probably more.

Drakon let his attention fall away from Biegen, focused on Simon as an eagle about to take a wolf. “You said the other children would be easier to take. That’s why they _didn’t_ take them. Those cuffs....” He rubbed at one wrist, as if it still ached. “They drain will. Energy. Whatever’s in you that says _I will not die here_. Maria led an _escape_. Logic says, she has the most energy of them all.”

For someone who didn’t believe in magic, Malachy thought, Drakon was remarkably quick at putting its pieces together.

“And node theory also tells us there’s a limit to how big a conspiracy can be, and remain secret,” the agent went on. “If my family’s been taken somewhere secure, if your lost children have been captured - the odds are very high they’re in the same place.” His gaze flicked to Biegen, sharp as the cut of a whip. “The question is where.”

“We’ve been working on that.” Tiburon cracked his knuckles. “For quite some time. This is at least a moderately large conspiracy, and they have... _unusual methods_ , to ensure their secrecy.”

“But those methods leave traces of their own,” Ja’far murmured. “If you know how to look.”

“And we’ve been looking,” Simon agreed, almost cheerfully. “It’s as interesting to see what they haven’t tampered with as what they have. Or even more so, I think.”

Biegen did a double-take, as if he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or sweat.

“It’d be hard to put the pieces together if we didn’t know Alan,” Simon went on, voice deceptively light. “But we do. And since we do, well... your so-called allies might as well have drawn us a map.”

Drakon’s glance at the man was sharp. Blazing.

_Hurt_ , Malachy recognized. _And hoping. Please be right, Simon. Please_.

“Your allies have wormed their way into every official institution in Boston.” Tiburon leaned in, eyes alight and ready to deal out pain. “They’ve been here for centuries. They _are_ Boston - or think they are. We’re not looking for a measly little coyote operation that’s been dragging people over the borders since the War on Drugs began. We’re looking for something that’s....” His grin was as sharp as the shark he’d taken for his name. “Dug into the foundations.”

“And that’s where they made their mistake,” Ja’far said, very quietly. “Most people are afraid to venture underground. Alan isn’t. Dig a tunnel, you’re likely to find him around the next corner.”

“A tunnel-” Drakon cut himself off, and turned on his former partner with a venomous hiss. “The _subways_.”

“Subways?” Malachy put in. Because fear had spiked in Biegen’s scent; a clear nose-shout of, _they know!_

“We ran an anti-terrorism exercise two weeks ago,” Drakon bit out. “The scenario involved sarin gas and public transport. I was reading up on the results and mapping them to add to my analysis... there were _holes_ in the search patterns. Places people didn’t look. I thought it was just inter-organizational friction, but if it wasn’t, if it was _organized_....”

Malachy tilted his head at Simon, silent inquiry. Simon nodded graciously back; _he’s all yours_.

Two long steps, and Malachy had the man by his collar. “My niece is in danger. _Where_.”

“I don’t... I don’t know....”

Malachy’s eyes narrowed.

“I swear I don’t!” Biegen’s voice cracked. “Look, you have no idea what you’re messing with, they have their _own line_ , anyone who knows where that goes isn’t going to talk!”

“Their very own subway line?” Simon mused. “I _am_ impressed. Ja’far, when we get everyone back home safe, we have to do something that cool.” His voice went hard. “We don’t have to know where it goes. Where does it _start?_ ”

* * *

Standing in a subway office the rest of Boston didn’t know existed, Phaenomena eyed the monitor displaying an IR camera view of one particular set of storm drains, and kept her wince hidden behind a martial artist’s calm not-smile. “The Ryans kid is a tunnel rat.” She straightened, unobtrusively making sure she was between her Magister and the Shays’ goon with the trank gun. “No wonder he’s so hard to catch.”

Not just because the fire-user knew the tunnels - although she’d bet her next set of nunchaku that was what the Shays thought. Because of the mindset that took to the underground in the first place. Train as hard as you could, and most people were still intuitively 2-D fighters. Block them in from four sides, and they were lost.

Alan was a tunnel rat. A traceur, and the Shays had turned up their noses at the physicality of the street-running art without ever thinking about what it meant.

_Ryans doesn’t care if you block him in. Can’t go through? Go over. Under. Around. Be where your enemy_ isn’t.

The Shays’ collective _rrraugh_ when they’d figured out he’d slipped their tracking net using stormdrains had been impressive to behold.

“A minor detail our young assistants neglected to mention,” Franklin Shays said coolly, eyeing the monitor. “So long as they perform their tasks, their punishment will be... something they can learn from.”

_Something short of death_ , Phaenomena translated. _You’re playing with fire, Shays_.

Granted, he was probably right to be confident. She’d taken one of those brats down with a cup of coffee.

_But stir up enough ants, and even a lion can be stung to death_.

Which brought her right back to the Red Lion girl, and why she was here with her Magister as he scowled and plotted, and not down in the drains herself.

_The MacLea girl would know my scent_.

And she wasn’t leaving Callimachus alone with the Shays. Not now. Not ever.

_We stay long enough to get your answers, Magister. And maybe get the girl, if we can snatch a young magician out of these bastards’ hands without getting killed._

_And then we get out of here. If I have to tie you up and carry you_.

Breathing out nerves to focus, Phaenomena watched the cameras.

* * *

“How do you even know where we’re going?” Morgan glanced at the access tunnel’s ceiling again, as if searching for signposts beyond the odd bit of spray-paint or flickering emergency light.

Alan took a breath through nose and mouth, ignoring some of the less pleasant smells to sort through the more informative scents in the air. “Maybe I don’t have a MacLea nose, but I’ve been down here a lot. Malt, burnt sugar - microbrewery off to our left. Taste that onion and daylily, it’s fainter but it’s still there, so it’s farther away-”

“Someone is eating daylilies?” Maria’s eyes were wide.

“Classic Chinese soup,” Alan shrugged. “We taught you how to eat nettles, don’t know why you think flowers are so much worse... anyway, that’s _authentic_ Chinese, and in this part of town that near a microbrew means Won’s Soup and Rolls, three doors down from Adam’s Spring. Put that together with the cabbage and leeks you can pick up from our right - Irish stew at McGillicuddy’s. Maybe I don’t know exactly where we are, but within one or two streets? I’m pretty sure.”

“You always were good at tunnels.” Aladdin tried to sniff the air himself; sneezed. “So why are you worried?”

Alan sighed, hoping Morgan’s ears were listening better than he could manage. “Usually anybody who’s not a utility worker doesn’t come down here. The dark spooks them. But sometimes homeless people do lurk down here... and sometimes gangbangers take a stroll around to see if they can shake them down for anything. And this is Pablo’s turf.” He shrugged. “I don’t get along with Pablo.”

“Why?” Morgan’s eyes narrowed as she watched Maria duck her head. “What do you know?”

“Is because of me,” Maria admitted. “And the children. Pablo knows we don’ belong here. We... steal to eat, sometimes....”

Ouch. He knew how much that hurt her to admit. “And as far as Pablo’s concerned, they’re taking what _his_ gang ought to get to steal,” Alan stepped in. “He’s kind of not exactly wrong. It’s tough when you’re on your own.”

“You made it.” Aladdin’s gaze was confident, even in the shadows.

“My mom worked hard to make sure I could make it,” Alan stated. “And I got lucky. Pablo - he’s a jerk, but he makes a place for people who don’t want to get caught in the next drug war between the gangs. There are worse guys out there.” He brushed a bit of spiderweb off his hair. “Mostly he doesn’t like me ‘cause I made him look like an idiot.”

Morgan raised a brow, as Maria stifled a snicker.

“...Maybe more than once?” Alan admitted.

Aladdin was shaking his head, incredulous. “What did you _do?_ ”

“...Um.”

Morgan raised the other brow.

_She’s pulling a Malachy. Eep_. Alan sighed, and caved. “Honestly don’t know which really got to him. Jumping across alleys he couldn’t, fast-talking him into leaving me alone because I was trying to make sure a cat didn’t get wokked, picking his pocket to put somebody’s watch back-”

“The unicorn,” Maria said firmly.

“Maria!” He was not going to whimper. Really.

“Alan is a devoted rescuer of stuffed toys from nasty evil storm drain dungeons,” Maria spilled shamelessly. “One of Pablo’s little cousins lost her Pinkie.”

“I was down there looking for where the wiring went anyway, Mom had this idea for a story....” Alan sighed. “Yeah. He kind of hates me.”

“Can we still deal with him?” Morgan asked pointedly. “He’ll have a phone.”

“We probably can, if we don’t get too close. Or ask too hard where he found it,” Alan admitted. They _needed_ a phone. He knew where half the public pay phones still working in Boston were, but every one they’d gotten near so far had had complicated spy-spells scrawled all over it.

In a way, that scared him worse than enchanted ether.

“You weren’t kidding.” Aladdin wiggled past a tricky bit of ductwork. “We are up against a kingdom. One that’s been around a long time. Some of those wards are over a hundred years old!”

_Yeah_ , Alan sighed to himself. _I was afraid you’d say something like that_.

Combine a hundred-plus years to work with magicians who knew how to store magoi in objects - he remembered what Yamraiha had been able to pull off in Sindria, and she was just one genius magician. Granted, people in this world hadn’t been able to use a fraction of the magic a Magnostadt-trained magician could summon. But with enough time and creativity....

_Boston was a deathtrap, and I never knew it_.

“You are making fun of me.” Maria’s voice had the tight edge it got when the local kids went after her. “Phones are not a hundred years old.”

“In Boston? Some of them are probably older,” Alan put in, deliberately calm. The last thing they needed was an untrained magician losing her temper. “Anyway, let’s keep it down. There aren’t as many tunnels in this part of town. Less options.” _And a lot more chances for an ambush_ , he thought darkly, moving forward through the tightest scramble yet. Some jerk had run a nest of stolen cable and fiberoptics through here, a crazy tangle that dipped within inches of the high-water line on the tunnel walls. He had to duck and move carefully, so he didn’t get snared, and knowing this was in Pablo’s turf made the back of his neck crawl. All someone would have to do was grab onto him and yank....

Gritting his teeth, Alan pushed on through, out into the wider space where four tunnels came together. “Watch your step,” he murmured, knowing Morgan would hear him. “Tunnel junction here’s at two different heights-”

Someone’s sneaker scuffed on concrete.

_Ahead of us. How did Morgan not hear that guy before?_ Alan kept his lips sealed and inched backward. Morgan would hear him retreating, and if he could just duck back under the cables there was a good chance whoever it was wouldn’t even realize someone else was here-

A flashlight’s beam stabbed into his eyes, and a familiar snicker echoed off the walls. “Hey guys. Look what we found! A sneaky little mouse.”

“Hey, Pablo,” Alan said casually, one hand raised to shade the worst of the light out of watering eyes. “Been a few weeks. How’s it going?” _Guys. He said guys. I could maybe see Morgan missing one guy down here, she doesn’t know the storm drains - but a couple? Something’s wrong here_.

“Even when you’re not here, you’re trouble, Mouse.” Pablo was fingering bright orange plastic like he would a silk shirt he planned to lift right under a clerk’s nose. “Pulled any more fluffies out to bribe Consuela with?”

_Will he never let that go?_ “I haven’t seen anybody here in weeks,” Alan said honestly, trying to peer past the light to make out just what Pablo was clutching and how many guys were behind him. Pablo’s tone sounded off, sounded like a _warning_ \- but why would the gang leader bother being subtle? He knew damn well all he had to do was flash a knife and Alan would bolt. Discretion, better part of valor and not being sliced into pieces, and all that.

Heck, Alan would bolt now if he had the chance, Metal Vessel and all. His fight wasn’t with Pablo. He could flatten Pablo if he had to, sure. _Aladdin_ could probably flatten Pablo, no magic required. But why start a fight they didn’t have to? Stay out of sight until dark, and they’d be home free.

_Why is Pablo even down here? With... a water pistol? That’s crazy_ -

_“Do what you would do to bring the fire here,”_ Maria’s voice echoed in memory.

_Water versus fire. The slavers know they’re looking for fire magoi. We hid Maria, but if they’ve got the phones trapped they could have_ passive _sensing wards, and Amon’s one big fire_ \- “Borg. _Run!_ ”

_Bottleneck, if Morgan strikes she’ll cave the walls in - take them down!_

Fire lit the tunnel with fangs of flame. The look on Pablo’s face as his water pistol flashed into vapor was _priceless_.

And then blank, as dark eyes rolled back and Pablo’s knees folded.

_What the-?_ Alan backed up to the tunnel snarl as more bodies hit the floor, nose wrinkling at a sudden strong taste of garlic in the air. _What’s going_....

: _Poison!_ :

In the air. In his tingling lips. Already in his blood, which meant Amon couldn’t-

The ground smashed him into darkness.

* * *

“Don’t breathe!”

Aladdin hardened his Borg with an extra layer of Wind as Morgan reeled. The air tasted like garlic and something bitter; the rukh was scattered into whispers of _what?_ and _poison!_ and _ambush!_

Ja’far’s anti-venom spell hadn’t been meant for inhaled gas, but poison was poison. Aladdin swept the spell over all three of them, fighting back waves of dizziness. Maria was keening, a wavering mix of _no_ and _brother_ and _Señora Anne!_ that ached in his ears.

_And that means they know we’re here_ , Aladdin thought grimly, grabbing Maria’s arm with his free hand to drag her away. Morgan was already pulling, woozy as she was, tears of fury trickling from red eyes. And it took both of them to drag Maria, because the younger girl was fighting, trying to get back to Alan if it meant biting them both.

“Ahead!” Morgan snarled, and shoved Maria on top of him.

The next few seconds would have been very confusing to anyone who’d never been in the backwash of a Fanalis’ glass-shattering roar. As it was, all Aladdin’s muscles twitched, as his nerves reacted to _predator_ by trying to run screeching the other way.

“What was that?” Maria gasped, shivering against him.

“Our friend.” Aladdin got a grip and kept dragging. Morgan could handle whatever was ahead of them, but he didn’t need Fanalis ears to hear the enemies rushing into the tunnel _behind_ them. Where Alan was.

_Have to get out of here; have to get where I can see what I’m doing! Where Morgan can fight without bringing the whole place down!_

Though from the crunches and yelps ahead of him, Morgan was doing a fair job of that, even half out on her feet.

_So I need to keep them from coming up behind us,_ Aladdin knew. _What can I do? A mirage won’t hide us in a tunnel and they’re ready for fire_ -

But just because Fire was his affinity, didn’t mean that was all he could cast.

_Never thought I’d be glad for fighting Judar!_

Aladdin whirled his wand, calling to all the trickles of water in the tunnels. _Come, form, freeze-!_

Ice crackled into place behind them, a glittering wall of cold. There were thuds.

Maria wasn’t fighting anymore, sobbing as she ran with him through and over groaning bodies.

_Don’t think anybody’s dead_ , Aladdin thought as he stomped on one hand reaching for what might be a weapon, reading flickers of outraged rukh that griped of broken bones, bruised organs, and splitting headaches. _Maybe I’ll be glad about that. Later_.

For now he was the only one of the three of them with a clear head, and they had to get out of here. Morgan had handled the enemies on this side of his spell, leaving whimpering thugs in scattered piles, but the ice-wall wouldn’t hold the other half of their foes back forever. Maria couldn’t defend herself, and if she died, Alan would - he might-

_I won’t let it happen!_ Aladdin bopped Morgan on the nose as the Fanalis stood there growling; jerked his head toward the street so she’d start moving again. _I’ll get her out of here. I’ll get us safe!_

And then he would find Alan. No matter what it took. Because his friend _would_ be alive to be found.

Because Alan wasn’t different, not where it mattered, and that was what Alibaba _did_. Stay alive, when all the world tried to collapse into calamity. Stay alive, a stubborn, shining light of hope, and lead those around him to fight back all the evil and hate in the world.

_I believe in you. Always_.

 


	20. James Bondage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The more things change... AKA the obligatory capture scene (now with extra eye candy).   
> Also, there is no alligator tango in this chapter. Darn.

_Cold!_

Alan sputtered, spitting out water that had tried to sneak into his nose. Jerked once, before he could think better of it, trying to flinch away from the bloodsucking drain on his wrists. Chains and the slosh of cold water around him told him that wasn’t going to work.

_Losing magoi. Losing life. Make it stop!_

A day ago he wouldn’t have been able to do this. But he remembered, he _remembered_ now; and if his magoi was a little different in this life, well, he’d dealt with that before. His magic, his life, was not going to get eaten by the bastards who’d hurt Maria!

The drain... stuttered. Thumped to a halt, like rough water piling up against a dam.

_Good thing they go for the wrists_ , Alan thought fuzzily, hair sloshing through cold liquid. _Arms and weapon, I can do; moving magoi around there’s easy. If they’d latched these cuffs onto my ankles instead of just plain steel shackles, I’d be in real trouble_.

... _I’m in shackles. And water up to my chin. Oh hell_.

“Interesting.”

_They know I’m awake_.

Fine. Then he might as well get a good look at what kind of unholy mess he’d landed in this time. Alan blinked away water, lifted his head to look past the distortion of the clear tank around him-

Held himself as still as he could, determined not to scream. His wasn’t the only tank in this echoing room. Though most of the others were... smaller. With sealed-over tops. And didn’t have anything as innocent as water in them.

_Scales, and bone, and patches of hair, and- focus! Whatever’s there isn’t moving, so it’s not the threat. Even if this does look like some of Hojo’s scariest labs from Final Fantasy... huh, wonder how much the game pulled out of old fairytales, Arba would’ve moved right in with her rukh-monsters- keep a grip, damn it! Arba’s gone, and David’s gone, and whatever this is_ can’t _be as bad as them. I’ll deal with it later_.

Preferably with a flamethrower. He was going to have screaming nightmares again, he just knew it.

Alan skimmed another quick glance around the auditorium-sized room. A few desks with laptops on them. At least two workbenches with odd devices scattered neatly over them; from here he could make out pipettors, something like a voltmeter, and at least one soldering iron among the host of unknowns. Fluorescent lights hung in neat, cable-linked rows to make the whole expanse winter-bright, but the ceiling was oddly low. Like old cellars he’d been in, built back when most people didn’t get past five-foot-six.

There was one modern addition to the dark stone up there. A sort of translucent, ribbed plastic tunnel, leading down into the center of a water tank even larger and deeper than the one he was stuck in. He thought there might be some kind of hatch closing off the tunnel at the ceiling, but the distortion of the plastic made it hard to tell for sure.

_It’s big enough to drop a whole person through. Whatever it is, can’t be good_.

Alan drew in a breath, trying to sort anything useful from the dizzying mix of bitter garlic, seawater, and chemicals. _Old stone. This place is_ old. _No wonder there’s cables on the ceiling; they must have brought in electricity later, where the heck am I_ -

Movement, traced by the faintest bright wings of rukh. A small head of messy brown hair, tucked against a woman’s dusty blue blouse as the young boy shivered in chill air. The lady herself was shackled to a bench - steel, no magoi-draining runes - deep blue eyes scared and furious enough that those shackles might be the only thing keeping her from tearing evil idiots to bits.

Alan blinked. And took a second look, where two blank-faced men in suits stood behind a stranger with a patrician air, carefully combed blond hair, and a white labcoat with an odd blank ID clipped to the pocket, meticulously buttoned over his own suit.

_Hidden underground lab, creatures that shouldn’t exist in tanks, and mass kidnapping. He is Hojo. Only no glasses, and less mad cackling_. “Right,” Alan said dryly. “Mad scientist. Why not? I’ve run into everything else this week.”

Somewhere behind one of the tanks, there was a glimmer of rukh, like a stifled snicker. Hojo-lite’s eyes narrowed, just a hair.

_Distract him_. “So.” Alan spat out a bit more water, trying to link fuzzy thoughts together. Garlic, gah, why did everything taste like- oh.

_No wonder I went down like a rock. Get that on your skin, it carries whatever nasty you mix it with right through_. “DMSO? I knew it, you were raised in a barn.”

“Plebian, but so effective.” Hojo-lite was _studying_ him, like a microbiologist who’d had something pink bloom in his Petrie dish. Why?

_Oh. Damn_.

...And maybe it would have been better if this had happened yesterday after all, because Hojo-lite had obviously been expecting a different reaction. Namely, _fear_.

_I’m not afraid_.

Worried sick, yes. Not looking forward to pain, yes. But the fear that usually dogged his every footstep in Boston... wasn’t there.

_Aladdin and everyone got away. There’s nothing of mine he can touch now. Why should I be afraid?_

Even the realization that a familiar metal weight was missing from his neck didn’t chill him. Amon’s magoi would shine like a beacon to magi senses; even if they’d dropped him into the ocean, Aladdin would be able to find him. Amon was safe.

_I’m not_ , Alan knew. _But I’ve fought without Amon before_.

The lady was watching him almost as intently as Hojo-lite. Holding the boy close enough he had to be family. “Ma’am,” Alan said politely. “I’m Alan Ryans. Who are you?”

She started, a hint of life flaring back into her eyes. “Sarah-”

“Did I say you could talk?”

Hojo-lite’s glance had only flickered at her; it was one of the heavies who moved. Sarah glared back at his upraised hand, curling her body to protect her boy-

“You know, that’s actually kind of stupid,” Alan said, almost conversationally. _Keep their attention on you. Keep them guessing_. “I mean, there’s no reason to be _embarrassed_. I get that you didn’t want to tell me you only caught me. Four kids, should have been a cinch to scoop all of them up, right? But, you didn’t. And now you want to prove you’re a _man_ by beating up a random lady. Real classy.”

The meaty hand halted.

Hojo-lite flicked an eyebrow up; a ringmaster, watching to see if a dog could juggle one plate more. “Being flippant, Alan? That could cause your friends some... difficulty.”

“Lie number one right out of the gate?” Alan kept his tone calm, sympathetic. “Mister, give it up. You don’t have them.” Because if Aladdin were anywhere near here, the rukh would be swarming toward their beloved magi, ready to give him all the fire he needed to blow this place apart. If Morgan didn’t rip it down with her bare hands, first.

“I see pointless bravado runs in the family.” The mad scientist eyed him like an ant. “How long can you keep that up?”

_He’s looking at the cuffs. Not just mad scientist. Mad magician_.

Which explained far too much. Especially why some of the rukh shivered around the guy, dark and shadowed and afraid-

“Interesting,” Hojo-lite repeated, an avaricious gleam in gray eyes. “You can almost see them, can’t you. What a rare talent.”

_Oh hell. He saw me watching the rukh_.

“That answers a few questions,” the mad magician murmured, half to himself. “After all, if you can see it, however imperfectly, you can affect it. Not with the skill of a true adept - but sometimes brute force can be almost as effective.” He eyed the water rippling above the magoi-draining cuffs. “Fruitless in the end, of course. Pit a boxer against a martial artist, and we know who’s going down.”

“Depends on the boxer,” Alan said wryly, thinking fast. _He thinks he’s the hacker wizard, and I’m a magical script kiddie. Pride. Push on that. Make him think he’s got the upper hand_. “Where’s my teacher’s sword?”

“Hmm. So you found a physical adept in... where did you go? Ah, yes; Florida, was it?” Hojo-lite folded his hands together, rubbed them slowly against each other as if to emphasize the lab’s chill. “I suppose we’ll have to send some agents down there. It wouldn’t do to have careless amateurs left lying around, would it?”

For a moment, the world seemed to haze red. _Touch Master Sharrkan, and I’ll kill you_.

But he’d had a lot of practice yanking fury back down, over the years. Alan held the rage to a shiver against the water, and stared silently back at the madman.

_Tiburon’s safer than Sharrkan would have been_ , Alan told himself. _He has more magoi, he wouldn’t pass out just from the chains clamping on. And he knows creeps like this exist_.

But if these idiots went after Tiburon they’d go after Hancock, and that... that was not happening. There were innocent people there. Teachers he actually liked there. Kids who’d just found out they might be magicians-

_Targets. Things to be_ used. _Like Maria’s kids were_.

... _Like those two are_ , Alan realized, trying not to glance at Sarah and her boy. _They’re not in magoi chains yet. But if Hojo-lite can see the rukh - he knows he can use them, too. Only he’s not. Yet_.

It was _interesting,_ how Sarah was watching him. Just, not making it obvious that she was.

_She twitched at_ agents. _Like that told her_ why _she’s here_ -

A breath hissed between Alan’s teeth. _That’s why they’re not in the cuffs. They’re hostages_. Leverage.

One way to be sure. “Ma’am, what’s your husband-”

“He’s FBI,” Sarah said swiftly; eyes on him, not the threatening bruisers. “Agent Dominguez. And he _will find us_.”

“No. He won’t.” Hojo-lite’s lips curled. “Your husband has no idea what he’s dealing with. Even if he did... he simply doesn’t have the capability to save you. He is,” a thin, satisfied smile, “quite alone.”

_How could an FBI agent be alone?_ Alan frowned. _All he has to do is pick up a phone or a radio and a whole mob of the Feds will come crashing down_ -

It was like feeling the rake pick slide all the way back in the lock, bumping up the last pin; one subtle, barely-felt _click_.

_They make Tools to find something horrible_ , Aladdin had said. _Something people can’t see_.

“Oh, you utter bastards,” Alan breathed. “That’s why you think you can get away with killing kids.”

Sarah paled, and covered her son’s ears. But she was listening.

“Killing?” Hojo-lite didn’t turn so much as a hair. “No one here is dead. Yet.”

“Yet? You _know_ what these cuffs do, you son of a-” No, that was an insult to camels. “You really think you’re getting away with it, don’t you?” Alan swept his gaze over the room again, knowing what he was looking for now. The symbols on waste bins and a few cabinets were subtle, faded magenta on blue instead of the yellow-and-black modern labs had, but he knew those deadly three-segmented warnings. “You make Tools to detect killers that people can’t see, and you’ve got heavy leverage on the Feds. Heavy enough to cover up kidnapping and murder. Which means what you make _is_ your leverage on the Feds. And if you think you can grab an FBI agent’s family and walk away - then there’s only one thing you can be looking for.” He glared at the madman, wishing he had fire in his hands. “Weapons of Mass Destruction.”

“Sir,” one of the heavies murmured.

“Oh, let him talk,” Hojo-lite said dryly. “We ought to know how thoroughly we’re going to have to make those he knows suffer, don’t we?”

No question that the man was going to try it. _Which means I’ve got to get out of here. And I’m going to need help to do it._

The only help he might have was shackled to a bench with steel. It was going to take a lot to get her willing to fight that. It was going to take the truth.

“Can’t be Chemical, you’re not grim and tidy enough,” Alan went on, trying not to shiver. “No airlocks; no ampoules of adrenaline and atropine and other nasty stuff. So that probably leaves out Bio, too. Despite what you’ve got in the tanks. What you’ve got there? Showy, but it’d blow your cover to kingdom come if any of it really got loose. Maybe you make monsters for fun, maybe you make them to spook people into leaving this place alone. But that’s not what you make Tools for. And why should you? There’s stuff in the air every day that can kill us, how could you get a Tool to pick out Ebola or some random Russian lab bug from next year’s flu virus? Plus Biowarfare guys tend to have this Dr. Moreau vibe going, ‘cause they all say they’d never want to use their stuff for real, but it’d be _so interesting_....” Alan drew in a breath. “Which leaves the last of the big three. The one thing that everyone goes crazy about. That people would pay any price for, because it’s the scariest killer of them all. Radiological weapons.”

Hojo-lite chuckled, even as his heavies tensed and Sarah went even paler. “An interesting bit of fiction-”

“Not that interesting,” Alan managed, teeth chattering a bit. “Get with the times, jackass. Maybe nobody’s used pink-on-blue trefoils since the 40s. But you can still find them on the Web.”

_No wonder they have water tanks. Drop a person in with whatever they’re playing with... not as good as sheets of lead, but it slows stuff down a lot_.

Which was not a happy thought at all, especially given that huge tank with the tunnel just _made_ to drop things through. Though he doubted these jerks had dunked him into anything radioactive right now. After all, open tank. He might just be able to splash somebody.

“Hmm.” Hojo-lite was actually rubbing his chin, as if he’d stayed up to watch late-night horror movies as career videos. “We thought you’d picked up the use of Tools through chance, or from your teacher. But you know far too much for mere happenstance. Interesting.”

_Oh, hell. Open mouth, insert foot. Should’ve known better than to spout off like that, I_ hate _being fifteen-!_

“A pity your mother was eliminated so hastily,” the mad magician mused. “It seems your family could have been far more useful than we ever suspected. Not least because you were able to hide it for so long.” He paused, long enough that it was definitely deliberate. “Or did you learn this through your father’s line?”

Part of him wanted to laugh hysterically. His father’s family, magical? Good at law and money, but magic - oh no, no way. Simon Cavins was a better bet for that, and the look on this psycho’s face if he found out a _Hollywood actor_ knew more about magoi manipulation than probably all this guy’s mob put together....

And Alan knew he was focusing on the crazy to avoid the even crazier. Because it made sense, all his father’s awkwardness and odd silences made _so much sense_ , and if Amon had been on him he might have incinerated this whole lab in one bright blaze of grief and fury.

“You killed Anne Ryans.” Sarah’s voice was quiet, but there was nothing soft about it.

“Don’t be ridiculous. The little bitch killed herself.” Hojo-lite was _watching_ him. Enjoying how the rukh shivered and shimmered around them, mirror-silver to night-black. “She just happened to take out one of our better procurers in the process. Mariñelarena may have been a coarse sort, but he knew how to find what we wanted.” Gray eyes had an avaricious gleam. “I wonder how it tore at your little pet. Knowing her own father-”

_That. Is. Enough_.

“Give it up,” Alan said raggedly. “I’ve seen people pushed into Falling before. You? You have _nothing_ on them.” God, the water was cold. “Maria’s not responsible for what her jerk of a father did. She _saved my life_.” Because good as a Djinn was, Amon had miscalculated, and if he hadn’t been in a hospital for those feverish weeks who knew what would have happened. “Go sit on a turbine and rotate. You think you can turn me?” He shook his head, hair sloshing through chill that climbed toward his ears. “You can’t. Burn down the world around me, and _I won’t hate you_.” One breath. Another, as he raised his head to stare into evil gray. “But I will stop you.”

“Falling?” Hojo-lite smirked, crossing his arms confidently. “What do you think this is, an old Sinbad fairytale? No one Falls into a bottomless well of dark power, to be condemned to hate and despair for all eternity. It’s not thaumaturgically possible.”

_...Right. Because Aladdin spent who knows how many thousands of years fixing the rukh so people wouldn’t_ -

“Now, psychotic breaks - well, those happen.” The mad magician’s smirk gained a harder edge. “And psychologists have _no idea_ how those in the grip of psychosis can perform impossible feats. When it’s so utterly simple. In those with the potential for power... strong emotions rouse the most energy of all.” A laugh, like any adult faced with a too-innocent child. “You won’t hate? Then you have no chance of defeating a kitten, much less... well.” One hand lifted in an expansive wave, taking in chains, tanks, the ancient stone walls. “Pacifists are _so_ easily manipulated.”

_If you think not wanting to hurt people is pacifism, boy have you got another think coming_. But Alan managed to bite back the words this time. Let the psycho underestimate him.

“You really think you have a chance.” Familiar metal dangled from between the psycho’s fingers. “Without this?”

Alan gazed at Amon’s Vessel, and mentally snarled a few of Sharrkan’s favorite Heliohapt swears. People thought a Metal Vessel User who couldn’t _touch_ their Vessel was disarmed. Which was mostly true. But dealing with Hakuryuu and the rest of the Rens had taught him what mattered wasn’t the physical touch. It was magoi contact; Warrior and Djinn able to reach each other.

_And the cuffs mean I can’t reach past my own skin. Damn it!_

“I must admit this little toy is an interesting conundrum,” Hojo-lite observed, gray gaze flicking over the rukh as if he couldn’t believe it wasn’t shading darker. “Obviously modern steel, yet the symbol is utterly mythical.” He twirled the multitool on its lanyard, watching silvery rukh flicker to and from it. “And it appears to have limitations on it to bind it to specific owners; a very archaic trait indeed. Something you’d find in an ancient tomb, or as an... heirloom. Where did you find it?”

Sarah was staring at the man as if she couldn’t believe her own ears.

_Heh. Yeah. Magic. No wonder she’s blinking. Not to mention, guy casually skims past a murder, like it’s the weather_ , Alan thought, fury still icing through him. _Man, that’s one thing about the past I did not miss_. “Online, twenty bucks on eBay.”

“Not cold enough yet.” The mad magician shrugged. “Perhaps some more time will persuade you to change your mind. After all,” he glanced through the tank, where water washed over magoi-draining shackles, “halting that flow must take an incredible amount of concentration. I wonder how long you can keep it up?”

Turning on his heel, he stalked off through the ranks of creature-tanks, heavies trundling in his wake.

“Right,” Alan murmured, listening to a door close out of sight behind them. “So. Assume we’re on candid camera.”

Sarah apparently had a better angle to see the door; her shoulders relaxed, just a little. She swallowed, and shivered.

“Don’t bother trying to get inside that guy’s head, Mrs. Dominguez,” Alan advised her. “Guys like him, the rest of us are just _things_. And a new toy’s so much more interesting than an old murder.”

Something hardened in her gaze as she nodded. Her arms tightened around her son; enough to make the boy squirm, before she relaxed them again.

_Yeah. If they’re willing to leave us alone, camera or no camera - leave Matt loose, even if they’re pretty sure a kid’s too scared to leave his mom - they’re not planning on keeping us long. We’re dead when we’re not interesting anymore. Or_ useful. _I need a plan_.

Though Alan thought he might have the shreds of one, as he watched the brighter rukh flutter closer to Sarah for comfort.

_I need time. And I need them out of here. Right now, we’ve got at least half of that. Which means... I need to take a chance_. Alan tried not to swallow too visibly. _Oh man. If this goes wrong, I am_ so screwed.

One deep breath. “So nice of him to tell us SAC Haughn isn’t under his thumb, don’t you think?”

Sarah blinked. “...What?”

“Oh, come on; if your husband’s been here even a month, you know how many times the cops have hauled me in,” Alan smirked. “I know half the guys on the donut patrol in Greater Boston, and _all_ the tells. But I _don’t_ know Agent Dominguez. Which means he’s new. Which means if Hojo-lite over there had Special Agent in Charge Haughn on his little Tool-making leash, all he’d have to do would be pick up the phone and get him to call your husband off. He’s got you? Then he _doesn’t have control_.” Alan _tsk_ ed. “And that could get really sticky.”

* * *

“That kid,” Phaenomena murmured in Callimachus’ ear, lips almost unmoving, “knows they’re being watched.”

Indeed he did, the alchemist decided, feeling the pressure of their guard’s eyes as all three of them watched a shivering teenager casually start asking a kidnapped woman and her son how the day had been so far. _Aside from, you know, the kidnapping thing_ , the youngster mentioned in passing. As if it were no more remarkable than a missed bus.

_Does he even know what surrounds him? What those creatures imply?_

Likely Ryans didn’t. After all, most who’d encountered beings twisted by magical forces didn’t live to tell the tale. Fortunately.

Phaenomena drifted her hand over the teen’s sheathed sword; a _khanjar_ , she’d told him earlier, good enough quality that it must have been commissioned from a true swordsmith. Someone had wanted the boy well-armed. “Am I missing any of the symbols on those Fomoire cuffs?”

“No,” Callimachus admitted, dragging his mind back to the more obvious danger. “You are not.”

“Thought so.”

There was a wealth of reproof in that level voice, and Callimachus thought he might deserve every bit of it. His own Fomoire chains were carefully designed, and took a great deal of time to craft - specifically because of the feedback loop he created within each Tool that used them, powering the chain from the wearer’s own magoi. A feedback loop with carefully set limits: once the wearer’s magoi ebbed to a certain point, the spell was no longer fed, and the Tool shut down.

His Fomoire chains were Tools to capture and bind. Tools to stop magicians in their tracks, yes; to sometimes stop them with serious damage, yes, magoi drained low enough to injure-

But only injure. Not kill.

_I want magic back in the world. What kind of idiot would I be if I killed those who bear it?_

The Shays’ cuffs had no limits. The Shays drained their captives for power, to create their Tools. The Shays were, apparently, importing victims to drain - which implied they weren’t waiting for the natural flow of life to restore what they could siphon off.

_They’re killing young magicians_.

And that... that made him _angry_ , in a way he hadn’t been since he’d last been a bystander at a lynching, over a century ago. Heaven knew his hands weren’t clean - his or Phaenomena’s. They’d killed for self-defense, or their own goals; living in the shadows meant any thug who thought you were easy prey would take what he could, and many of them couldn’t be stopped short of drastic bodily harm.

_But those were others like us. Those who chose to live by the sword - or the gun, or fireball, or grenade. These children_ had no choice.

Callimachus clutched that anger close to him, to fight back the fear. What the Shays were creating here, what they had the _capability_ to create, with government connections and a steady supply of stolen magoi....

“Magister?” Phaenomena barely breathed it.

Callimachus took a ragged breath, and cursed himself for showing that much fear. “Rappaccini’s daughter.”

The smallest tremor ran through his companion’s frame, as the old code words struck home.

_Tainted Life magic._

There were, after all, reasons the idea of a zombie apocalypse held such a cold, dead grip on the human imagination. Once in a very long while, it had actually happened.

_There are dangers to the quest for greater magic_ , Callimachus had told his would-be companion over a decade ago, once they’d decided to try working together. _Some of those dangers, I have met. And some... I have only heard of. Fortunately._

To tamper with the magic of Life drew the strongest of emotions, after all. Especially when a treasured love or hated enemy was dying. A strength that might let a cruel or unwary magician work the most horrible of miracles, and let what should never be - _walk._

_I knew one magic-user who chose to delve into Life and death, in the eighteen hundreds_ , Callimachus had informed her. _He began to be... obsessed. He stopped accepting callers, his letters became less frequent and far more disturbing, and at the end_....

He didn’t want to remember the end. At all.

_No one knows the whole story. I doubt anyone made it to his lab, and certainly none did so and returned, until a certain division of fire and brimstone Calvinists burned that valley to ash and cinders decades later_.

He’d never been fool enough to venture into the poor bastard’s range himself. What he could sense of the patterns of power from the nearest ridgeline had been heart-stopping enough. And the reactions from those locals who’d survived - no. He was not a fool. There’d been nothing in that ruin worth dying for. Or perhaps worse, not _quite_ dying for.

_I’ve never been a hero_.

But he’d never been a fool, either. He’d spent months of effort weaving a net about that place... well, not unlike that he’d woven about Hancock, in scope and power. Only this one had not drained magoi to create chains, but to slam a warning into the instincts of any creature that threatened to cross his border.

_No rescue beyond this point. And no return_.

He’d felt such an utter relief when that lab had burned - and all its notes with it. No one needed to stray down that path of destruction, ever again.

Yet from the creatures in this lab, from the potions and powders and who knew what other inhuman Tools he could sense, flicking against the rukh, the Shays were headed pell-mell down that road with a song in their hearts.

_Those utter, complete fools!_

“Rappaccini, huh? Should be interesting to watch,” Phaenomena observed. “If we have any time to watch it; Shays should be back here in a minute. And you know he’s going to have more questions on that Tool.”

That flick of emphasis on _interesting_ \- so small, such the slightest shift in a voice otherwise carefully level. He knew just by hearing it she’d shifted position to partly block their guard’s view, giving him a few precious seconds to work.

Callimachus reached out to the video monitor and tapped its side, as if seeking to adjust the reception.

Which, in a way, he was.

A flicker of purple around his fingers, as he invoked one of the spells Phaenomena had given him reason to perfect over the past decade. One that made their lives much, much simpler, so long as they were otherwise careful.

_What’s on this monitor isn’t important_.

He wasn’t a fool of a hero, after all. The Shays family knew full well he and Phaenomena were dangerous. Dangerous enough that Franklin Shays would, possibly, allow them to walk free - but one twitch to do something about the Toolmakers’ horrific monster-nest of a lab, and the two of them would be _neutralized_.

So he would keep his calm, and keep control. And _leave_ , as soon as he could reasonably pry the pair of them out of this travesty of magic.

And wait for the explosions.

After all, the Shays didn’t believe in fairytales.

* * *

_The files said he was a burglar_ , Sarah thought, listening to Alan ramble about special agents, storm drains, and what might happen if you dropped Frosty the Snowman’s hat in the middle of a dinosaur diorama until Matt finally relaxed against her and started to look around. _They never said he was kind_.

“Hey there.” If Alan’s teeth were chattering, he was still smiling. “You okay, kid?”

“Uh-huh,” Matt said, voice still very small. “Mommy? When can we go home?”

“I-” Sarah caught her breath. “I don’t know yet, Matt. I’m... trying to think.”

Think. God. They were chained in steel, held by madmen, in the middle of a room full of preserved monsters....

And she wasn’t even sure _preserved_ was the right word. She’d swear a few of the scaly things had shifted since she last looked.

“Take your time. Put your head down if you have to,” Alan advised. “Slow breaths. Breathe too fast, you hyperventilate all the carbon dioxide out of your blood and bam, brain knocks you out. And we really can’t afford that, ma’am.”

“How....” Sarah had to swallow hard, because he was so pale, and the room was so cold; the water couldn’t be warm. “How are you so calm?”

“Well, that might be because my give-a-damn’s busted,” Alan reflected.

“Mommy!” Matt straightened, indignant. “He said a swear!”

“No, seriously. I am completely and utterly out of damns,” Alan went on. And that was a glint of pure boyish mischief in his eyes, Sarah could see it. “They’re all damned up. This building’s been con-damned.”

Chains clinked as Sarah groaned.

“Too much?”

“You,” she couldn’t help but giggle, even if it felt half-hysterical. “You are _terrible_.”

“Thank you! I’ll be here all this week.” A slosh of water. “Except I really hope not. S’cold in here.”

Matt shivered in agreement. “Mommy, these people are awful. How come Dad hasn’t shot them yet?”

“Bloodthirsty little guy, isn’t he?” Alan observed.

Like his father. Though Domingo tried to keep it to civilized limits. “Matt,” Sarah said, quiet and serious, “you know your father never wants to shoot people unless he has to.”

Gold eyes met hers through the tank, totally serious, and Sarah felt her shoulders stiffen.

_This time, he’s going to have to. If he can even find us_.

“You....” God, even with the humor to cushion her, the situation made her want to huddle up in a ball and wish the whole world away. “You were serious. About those stickers.”

“Old-fashioned radiation trefoils, yes ma’am,” Alan said quietly. “I wouldn’t lie to you about that. We’re in really bad trouble.”

But he’d taken the time to make her laugh. To make Matt smile, so she could gather her wits and _think_.

_I wish I’d met your mother_. “Do you have any ideas?” And now she was being silly, Alan was even worse off than she was, and even if he were a locksmith he couldn’t pick her locks from yards away-

“I’ve got one.”

Sarah eyed him.

A shift of soaked shoulders. “It’s going to sound a little crazy, though.”

“Dad says if it’s crazy and it works, it’s not crazy,” Matt said stoutly. “Mrs. Amory doesn’t think so, but I think she’s a sissy. If ‘Lissa didn’t want me to put the eraser in her hair then she shouldn’t have been all icky.”

Alan raised an intrigued brow.

Sarah sighed. “At least he’s stopped biting people?”

“Dad told me you can catch things that way,” Matt agreed. “You don’t bite bad guys. You never know where they’ve been!”

That had better not be a snicker coming from that tank. Or she was going to... well, take Alan out, give him some hot cocoa, and _then_ give him a piece of her mind.

“Kid, when we get out of here, I want to introduce you to my biology teacher,” Alan mused. “Mrs. Amory will never know what hit her.”

_When we get out of here_. “You really do have an idea?” Sarah asked, wondering.

“’Course he does! He’s cool! Like Dad.” Matt grinned. “You’re going to save us, right?”

“No, not me, kid,” Alan said quietly.

Sarah winced. Such a quiet, gentle voice. From all the tales Domingo had brought home of Anne Ryan’s little break-and-entry specialist of a son, she’d never realized he could be gentle-

“It’s going to be your mom who does that.”

_What?_

Matt turned a wide-eyed, wondering stare up at her. Hazel eyes bright with belief.

_Because Mom and Dad can do anything_ , Sarah thought with a pang. “Young man-”

“Can you see the butterflies?”

Caught off guard, Sarah stated at the shivering youngster in the water tank. Impossible. There was no way he could know about a much younger girl’s glimmering imaginary companions.

“I know you saw them. That psycho knows you saw them, too. It’s part of why he’s keeping you alive. People who can see them... you’ve got a gift. They’re not your imagination.” Gold eyes were fierce - and so oddly hopeful. As if all Matt’s young belief in miracles had been mixed with a bitter dose of reality, then distilled into the pure determination to make dreams real.

“You’re not seeing things, you’re not daydreaming, you’re _not crazy_ ,” Alan said firmly. “They’re real. They can help you. You can get us out.”

Slowly, Sarah shook her head. “We’re in shackles. I know you can get out of handcuffs, but these aren’t coming apart without a key.”

“You’re in locks.” Alan bobbed in the dark water, took a breath and shoved himself up again. “Locks are meant to _unlock_.” Another breath. “I know how crazy it sounds. We’re all scared. But I promise you this trick is _real_. As real as me driving half the cops crazy ‘cause I won’t stay in handcuffs. It works. And if you can see the butterflies - you can do this.”

“How?” Sarah snapped, temper frayed by fear. Her son - this awful place - and what were they doing to Domingo, if these madmen were holding them both to force his hand? “You don’t think they’d have left us alone if there was any way we could escape!”

“That’s what they’re counting on.”

Sarah rocked back against the cold bench, clutching Matt close. No doubt in that teen’s voice. _No fear_.

“That’s what _every_ jerk who wants to rule the world counts on,” Alan bit out. “Trust me, lady, they’re all the same. They want people to think we’re weak. That the bad guys have all the money, all the power, all the guns to get whatever they want. They want us to think we can’t fight.” Gold eyes blazed, bright as fire. “And _it’s all a lie_.”

“A lie?” Sarah managed. Because she didn’t think Anne’s son was crazy, but he had been running a high fever before Domingo had had him spirited away. “I know you saw-”

“Mrs. Dominguez. Think.” For a crazy kid, he sounded remarkably sane. “Yes, they have guns. Yes, they have magic. Yes, if their bruisers get their hands on us we’re probably paste. But you saw what’s here. It’s all illegal as hell. And there’s no way - no way - they can clear it all out in a few hours. So we don’t have to fight. If we want to wreck their plans, all we have to do is _get away_.”

_Survive. Evade. Resist. Escape_ , Domingo’s voice murmured in her memory. _I hope you never need to know any of this, light of my life. But better to know, and never have to use it_....

Sarah shook her head, unwilling to let that thrill of hope overturn logic. “Even if they were real - how could _butterflies_ get us out of this?”

“Trust me, they can.” Alan smiled, even as he shivered again. “First, you need to know how to listen....”

* * *

“You’re certain he mentioned SAC Haughn, Smith?”

Phaenomena watched Franklin Shays interrogate their guard, oblivious to the monitor, while her Magister poked and prodded at Alan’s odd little Tool. The khanjar blade was on the table near to hand, within easy snatching distance if she moved fast. This would have been a good time for a breakout - if Shays hadn’t brought thugs Two and Three with him.

One on one, she’d bet on her Magister against Shays any day of the week. And three on one odds for herself? Not a problem.

But the Shays had already shown they’d use knockout gas at the drop of a hat, no matter who was caught in the crossfire. Which meant she had to refine her plan from _take them down_ to _take them down so nobody finds out about it until we’re already gone_. And that... was a bit trickier.

At least she had some entertainment while she schemed. Even if it was a little nerve-wracking, listening to Alan Ryans talk an untrained magician into visualizing the rukh.

“Just let your eyes unfocus a little, and think about something that makes you happy,” the teen’s voice murmured, calm and quiet. “What you’re looking for - emotions make it easier.”

“Then why not go for fear?” Sarah’s voice shook like she was the one in the water tank. “If it’s just strong emotions-”

“Because Lucas was right, before he wandered off the deep end with midichlorians and a Jedi Council that couldn’t see the Wookiees for the trees,” Alan cut her off. “Dark emotions - self-centered, idiotic hate and fear - they’re not stronger. For this, they’re worse. Think about it. What’s the strongest fear in this room right now? _Not getting out_. No way can we work with that.” His voice was like Damascus steel, strong and beautiful. “You don’t want the dark. You want a sunbeam, dancing warm and free....”

Which sounded like some of her Magister’s gentler lessons, and Phaenomena had to bite her tongue not to grab her alchemist and give him a stern talking-to. Sure, Solomon’s Wisdom, all the knowledge in the universe, she could see why someone would want that-

_But you want it to bring magic back to the world. If Ryans and his weird friends can teach adults to tap their own magic - isn’t that half the battle?_

Granted, she’d love to know how the kid could use that Tool to play with fire like Legos. If it was a Tool. If her Magister was right, and it was something much more....

Fingers touching an oval of steel, Callimachus winced.

Shays broke off his hurried discussion with his thugs. “I have a potential instability in the local field office and my most reliable agent hasn’t reported in. Whatever you’ve found had better be worth it.”

“Worth is always a relative thing,” Callimachus reflected. “It is, at least, interesting.” He lifted his hand from Seal-marked steel. “Kill Ryans, and this becomes nothing more than a very odd paperweight. Or, possibly, vanishes into the ether. I’m not entirely sure which.”

“Make sense.” Shays’ eyes narrowed. “Kill the young idiot, and modern steel vanishes? It’s a _Tool_.”

“No, it’s not,” Callimachus said soberly. “Not as you and I know them. The steel may be modern, but the curse on it is unthinkably ancient. It’s keyed to one specific, living magoi. Without that power....” The alchemist eyed the Seal, looking past the physical world. “I doubt the elemental would perish. But it would go dormant, never to wake again unless someone just happened to fulfill all of the curse’s specific conditions. The ones I’ve been able to pin down so far include life-threatening peril and some kind of... loyalty clause?” Callimachus shook his head. “Whatever else might be required, I would venture to guess that it is very, very rare. You’d have a better chance of being struck by lightning than finding another compatible host.”

“Curse?” Shays and Smith said as one. The business-mage was frowning; the thug’s face had the faintest flicker of unease.

Laughing, Phaenomena knew, would completely ruin the effect. She kept her face straight and solemn, as if she were at a funeral.

“The boy is bound to something inhuman for the rest of his life,” Callimachus shrugged. “People watch that silly film of the mermaid, and forget that in the original tale, every dainty step she took felt like walking on knives.” He never glanced at the monitor. “To be bound to this... object... is to take every breath edged in fire. If you really mean to torture him, you might consider giving it back.”

For a long moment, Shays was silent.

_Eep. Magister, you may have overplayed your hand - we’re going to have to move_ fast-

A thin smile engraved itself on Shays’ face. “The rumors never said you had a sense of humor.”

Phaenomena was _not_ going to collapse in relief. Not now.

_You did it. Shays wants the kid riled up and psychotic, so he can drain off that crazy magoi faster. He’s looking for an excuse to let the kid stew - and you just gave him one_.

“So.” Shays prodded steel with his own finger. “How ancient is this curse?”

* * *

“Shays’ Folly.” Agent Domingo pointed to a sheer tower of gray granite, soaring at least five stories into the sky. “Mishawum’s one and only claim to quietly bizarre fame. The ancestor of the Shays family supposedly built it just before the height of the witch craze, as a lookout tower for Satan’s minions.” Drakon shrugged, as if that casual motion could throw off the fury Malachy could smell boiling from his skin. He’d seen the restraint it took for the agent to leave Biegen bound and gagged in his trunk, rather than just dumping him off while the car was still moving. “I never thought there was anything in there but dust and pigeons; according to the newspaper archives, local kids climb it at least once a year. But Anne seemed to think it was dangerous enough to keep taking Alan with her into Boston to keep him away from it, even after he started a gang war.”

“He started a....” Ja’far groaned. “Of course he did.”

Drakon eyed Ja’far with actual trepidation. “What do you mean, _of course?_ He was _nine_.”

“When we get everyone back in one piece, we’ll fill you in,” Tiburon almost chuckled. “Let’s put it this way. Throwing Alan at a problem is like tossing the Mythbusters at something that goes boom.” He glanced at Simon. “And now we have two of them.”

Simon was peering at the tower from under shading hands, careful to stay in the shadows of the local oaks and various red-berried brambles. “Something about that place... bothers me.”

“Besides the fact that it’s the one landmark for their surface garage Biegen was sure we wouldn’t miss?” Drakon growled. “We should have gone in through the tunnels in Boston-”

“No, we shouldn’t have,” Simon stated.

“Definitely not,” Tiburon agreed, eyes narrowed as he looked over the tower again.

Drakon opened his mouth to protest... and shut it slowly, thoughtful. “You mentioned you have some military experience.”

“A bit, and you probably don’t want details,” Tiburon said frankly. “Let’s just say I know people who do armed hostage rescue, and going in the way Biegen suggested would, frankly, _suck_. The subway line out from Boston proper is an approach the Toolmakers control. Who knows how long they’ve had to set traps and sensors, or even regular guards? We don’t have enough intel for that to be a good option.”

“What’s worse is that it cuts down on _our_ options,” Simon put in. “You saw what Ja’far was able to do to your partner. The rest of us have a few other interesting tricks. But they’re much better suited to an area with room to move. We don’t want to go underground until we absolutely have to.”

“Plus magicians,” Malachy pointed out. “Might see you coming, Simon.”

“Right.” For once, Simon almost blushed. “Sorry about that, Agent. Part of what gives us an advantage against energy manipulation... well, it’s kind of like walking around in bulletproof vests.”

Drakon blinked. And frowned. “A civilian might not notice, but our targets will?”

Malachy nodded. “Same way Simon noticed that tower. Magician bait.”

“Oh?” Purple brows arched up; Simon nodded, short and sharp. “That would be it.”

“It’s what?” Ja’far gave him a look askance, as Tiburon leaned forward in interest. “Simon, there aren’t any lure-spells on it I can sense-”

“There don’t have to be,” Simon said frankly. “You’re _curious_. If you saw a tower like that, you’d try to find out what was inside.” He didn’t quite point at worked stone. “That is a standing invitation to anyone with too much curiosity for their own good. Add in that there’s a way in at the top - that tower selects for people who’ve got either the agility or power to make it up there somehow.”

Malachy nodded. “Magician bait.”

“And the rukh around it acts just odd enough to draw the eye... damn it.” Ja’far’s voice was very cold. “Remind me to write this all down later. If the Shays have something like this planted in a small town here, who knows where else they’ve set traps?”

“Or how many other little nests of malice have come up with the same idea,” Tiburon agreed, fingering the hilt of his blade. “Right in Alan’s hometown. No wonder he hates this place.”

Drakon was staring at them all, hand half-raised as if he badly wanted to rub at a throbbing headache. “Magicians.”

“Would psychic or paranormally gifted make you feel better?” Tiburon met the agent’s gaze frankly. “I know I’ve had a hard time with it myself. But I’ve seen too much, done too much, to lie to myself about what we’re up against.”

“What are we up against?” Drakon turned his stare on Simon, as if he wanted to turn the man upside down and shake the answers out. “Biegen says it’s the Shays’ family enterprises. He seems to think these - Toolmakers - are some kind of bizarre Mob family. But you say magic. And....” One hand rubbed his wrist, where steel and magic had bitten to the soul.

“You might as well think of them as a Mob. Just with a few interesting tricks up their sleeve,” Simon said candidly. “Hopefully, we have a few of our own.” He knuckled his chin, as if he could stare the tower down. “Biegen might not have _admitted_ to anything, but he pretty strongly hinted that the Toolmakers deal whatever Maria’s father was strung out on. The crowd around the firehouse said the firemen were hit with sleeping gas. One happenstance, twice coincidence - we’re not up to _three times enemy action_ yet, and I’d rather it stayed that way. So. Thoughts on how to avoid any little drug tricks?”

“I have one.”

Malachy raised a brow. Ja’far’s stance was controlled, but to anyone who’d watched Simon for years, the magician might as well have shouted _I’m going to hate myself for this_.

Simon weighed that stance himself. Sighed, and rested both hands on his surprised friend’s shoulders with a resigned, mischievous smile. “Ja’far. Malachy breaks bones. Tiburon’s slit a few throats in his time. And you must think I’m thick as a brick wall if you think I haven’t noticed your part in keeping my shenanigans down to just twisting our local press into verbal pretzels, instead of, oh, actually starting a cult. If you think I’m going to be upset with you for using something shady you know to save lives, especially ours, think again. What do you need to do, and what do you need from us to do it?”

“I....” Ja’far stood stiff, where a less controlled man would have licked his lips in pure nerves. “I mentioned certain... aspects of the past that Aladdin and I have been able to restore.” A heartbeat’s pause. “Whatever poisons they use, I’m likely to be immune.”

“That’s fine for you,” Drakon started.

“This is where things get complicated,” Simon cut him off. “You’re not going in there on your own, Ja’far. Even if you probably would be able to leave them all dead before they knew you were there. I won’t let you take that burden on top of everything else. I _won’t_ ,” Simon repeated, when Ja’far started to object. Leaned in, and pressed his forehead to white-streaked brows, until the man gave up and breathed.

“I won’t,” Simon said again, softly, fingers kneading the magician’s shoulders. “We’re in this together. So if you don’t want my hands dirty, find another way. Because whatever we do, I will be right there with you.” He let go, and grinned. “Besides, Baal says Sei says you have another idea, and it sounds _interesting_.”

Malachy glanced at Tiburon, checking if the hairs had gone up on the swordsman’s neck the way they had on his. When Simon said something was interesting....

“Ah.” Ja’far’s hand went up his sleeve, emerged with a rope-knife. “There are spells to... share immunities. Normally my clan would only use them in a medical setting; they take a fairly large energy input. At least, large by old standards-” He cut himself off. “We have enough power. Especially if you help. And I’ll need your help to pull it off. It’s the only way we’ll be able to connect all of us. All of us here have links to you, and to Baal. Though Tiburon’s association with Baal is from this life, and Drakon’s link to both of you is from the past, which makes it a little tricky....”

“That’s solvable.” Simon turned toward the disbelieving FBI agent. “Do you believe we’re in this up to our necks just as much as you are? They have your family. They have my cousin, and Malachy’s niece - and Alan, who’s Tiburon’s apprentice. Believe me, a swordsman doesn’t use that term lightly. We have as much to lose as you do-”

Drakon snorted. Malachy frowned at him.

“No. No, that’s fair,” Simon waved a hand to ward off any bone-breaking. “We’re not the ones choosing between our careers and our own flesh and blood. Not that it’s a choice, Agent. I’ve picked up on that much already. But.” He stood straight, serious and regal as Malachy had ever seen him, even on a film set. “Whatever you lose here, you let us try to help you, even when what we said sounded crazy. And you helped _us_ ; we’d never have found our enemies this fast without you. If you find that Boston casts you out, you will _always_ have a place with us. If we have to carve one out with our bare hands.” He held out a hand. “Come with us.”

“Oh, for the love of....” Drakon broke into snarling mutters that definitely weren’t English; Tiburon pricked up his ears, murmuring something under his breath that sounded to Malachy like _Spanish Basque_.

Simon blinked, almost innocent, as if this were the last reaction he’d expected. “What, you don’t believe me?”

“No. I do,” Drakon bit out the words, as if he’d like to hang them around Simon’s neck for an old-fashioned pillorying. “I don’t trust anyone I’ve just met. Why the hell do I believe you?”

“Cutting off soul-sucking steel abominations?” Tiburon offered.

“Hmm. Point.” Drakon eyed Simon narrowly. Made an aggrieved noise in the back of his throat, and finally shook the offered hand. “So. Assuming Biegen wasn’t lying, the garage exists, and there is a way into the subway branch we can find. What do we need to do for this next bit of insanity?”

“Get close,” Ja’far advised. “And let me touch your sword, Simon. I’m no magi, but I think I can convey the formulas I’m using to Baal, if Sei will help.”

“So calm.” Tiberon bumped shoulders with Malachy as they all drew together, voice wry. “Wish I knew how you do it. At least Ja’far and I remember what dungeons can do.”

“I’ve known Simon for years,” Malachy said, deadpan. “I have withstood spontaneous alligator tango. With costumes.”

Drakon was staring. At both of them. With a look of wariness that really ought to be reserved for something horrible, like unfinished tax returns. “Alligator tango...?”

Malachy nodded.

“Things like that happen around Simon,” Tiburon smirked. “You get used to it. From what I’ve seen, you’ve got good reflexes. I think you’ll do fine.”

Drakon gave the swordsman one of the best glowers Malachy had seen outside his own relatives. A pure infuriated frustration that probably scared most humans off, but to a MacLea registered as, _gee, thanks, I appreciate the_ confidence, _and would you at least let me have a knife to go up against that grizzly next time?_

Oh yes. He’d fit right in; Malachy could smell it. The agent was angry, and worried, but also interested.

_Simon wants to keep him. But Drakon doesn’t know us yet. So he doesn’t know if he even wants to consider coming. He’s thinking for himself; good, he’ll need that around Simon. But that means we’d better show him why he should want to come in to the crazy. So make sure he gets to play, too_. “Twenty on Morgan,” Malachy offered, as Ja’far started chanting.

“Twenty on your niece what?” Drakon said warily, only blinking a little at the faint purple light sweeping out to tickle them all.

“Breaking in, breaking out, breaking heads,” Tiburon mused. “Does that cover everything?”

“Breaking walls,” Ja’far put in, in a breath between chants.

“Didn’t I cover that with breaking in or out?” Tiburon tilted his head, amused.

“Not if she’s just foot-stomping. _Inochi_....”

“Foot-” Drakon cut himself off. “There was - a hole. In the wall at the firehouse, where those children were. It should have taken a sledgehammer....”

Malachy smiled. Aww, his little niece was growing up.

“You think they’re going to be all right,” Drakon said quietly, as if he couldn’t believe his own words. “You think we can really save them.”

_“Ka!”_ Ja’far finished, violet and lightning-amber sparking from wand and sword and knife, settling over them all like a net of ametrine ribbons.

Malachy took a breath as the magic settled on their skin and vanished. The air tasted slightly different; just a hint of ozone, prickling on his tongue. But it didn’t interfere with scent. Good.

“They took our students,” Simon stated, sword carefully turned so it cast no betraying glints toward the tower. “They kidnapped the woman who had the spine of steel it took to marry _you_.” He sheathed Baal’s Vessel, eyes gleaming. “I suspect it’s not going to be the _victims_ that need a rescue.”

* * *

“So this is the place.” Aladdin perched midway up a maple with Morgan and Maria, staring at the dark rukh circling the stone tower. And it was dark rukh; not black, not life-destroying....

But it was sad, and angry, and full of screams of agony. How could any magician stand to live like this?

_Al-Thamen did. And worse_.

Yet for all the shadowed rukh, there was a thin stream of moon-bright wings, rising from the top of the tower like a twisting coil of starlight. Aladdin felt some of the weight ease off his shoulders. “He’s alive.”

Maria buried her face in her hands, sobbing silently.

Morgan put a hand on her shoulder, face calmer than it had been for hours. “You’re very brave.”

“Brave!” Maria spat a host of swears Aladdin really hoped Morgan didn’t understand. “I can no’ even tell you-”

“But you helped us find their lair,” Aladdin said firmly. “Even though you know how dangerous they are.”

It hadn’t been easy, especially not for Maria. Morgan had followed Alan’s scent as far as she could, until the sensory mess of diesel smoke and other people’s bodies left them to realize the Toolmakers must have taken Alan off in some kind of truck. Then they’d had to cast about like playing hot and cold, counting on Maria’s gnawing, unconscious terror to tell them when they were headed in the right direction.

And Maria had done a lot more than that. She’d told them everything she knew about Pablo, where to find his crew, and how to talk to the one guy Ramos they’d caught as Morgan hung him upside down from a fire escape by his ankles.

“What’d you expect us to do, scary lady?” the sweating gang member had yelped. “The Toolmakers - they’ve got Consuela! Pablo don’t give them a favor to get her back, bad things happen. Really bad things!”

“Bad things you let happen to Alan!” A hint of sparks flared around Maria’s fingertips.

“Yeah, yeah - screw you, witch! If Ebola didn’t kill that little bastard, what will?”

Morgan growled.

The greasy-haired gangster paled. “What the hell _are_ you?”

“Alan’s friends,” Aladdin had stated.

Which had put Ramos into the kind of panic Aladdin hadn’t seen since he’d first called Ugo out to help Alibaba save people from the Desert Hyacinth. The same kind of, _this can’t be happening, the whole world just went insane,_ and _is it going to kill me next?_

Aladdin didn’t like it. But he wasn’t too proud to use it. They’d had to leave Alan behind. And even if he was sure his friend could survive anything these slavers could throw at him, that didn’t mean he should have to.

_He’s my friend_.

And... sometimes in the past, when he’d been _sure_ Alibaba would be fine, because even getting thrown into Reim penniless or being dragged into a volcano hadn’t slowed him down, Aladdin had seen that....

Well. Kou. And Balbadd. And that whole mess with Hakuryuu and being just a little too late. He didn’t want Alan to have to go through anything like that _ever again_.

But even with Solomon’s Wisdom, Pablo’s gang didn’t know where to find these Toolmakers. It was like-

Even the memory made Aladdin shudder now, hanging onto rough maple bark. He’d been able to sort a few memory-images from Ramos of himself, Pablo and other gang members following someone... and then the images had turned gray and swirly, like foul water sucked down an endless drain. Like someone had punched a hole in Ramos’ rukh, right where the memories should be. A hole filled with a near-black spot of, _you don’t find us. We find you_.

Alan hadn’t had that hole. But Alan had been careful.

_He followed papers, not people. They couldn’t hurt him if they couldn’t find him_.

But now the slavers had him. They _had_ to get him back.

_They’re magicians. I have to stay calm. I don’t have Yam’s Tools to block me from the rukh. If I stir things up too much, the slavers will see it_.

And he didn’t want them seeing him until he had Alan _right there_. Because slavers were horrible, vicious, lethal people, and he was _not_ going to get to Alan too late. Not again.

Aladdin took a long, deep breath, and slowly breathed it back out. Closed his eyes, and didn’t pry at the rukh. Just... let it wander toward him, if it wanted, and waited for any glimmers of images.

Through his eyelids, he could see a few bright flutters detach from the coil winding around the tower, and whisper down.

_Stones. Cold. Hope, firm against the press of darkness. A dark-haired woman and her child, listening to the wind_.

Aladdin raised his head, trying not to grin too much. “He’s in there. Somewhere deep under there, but he’s there. And he’s going to be okay.”

“Okay?” Morgan frowned, serious as Masrur about to take down an army.

“He’s got someone there he’s worried about,” Aladdin said firmly. “He won’t give up.”

Maria was holding out her hands to the bits of rukh, wide-eyed and wondering. “Why do they care? He has always calmed the flutters around us, always - and I do not know _why_.”

“Because he’s a king,” Aladdin said patiently. This world didn’t know, even the old world hadn’t really understood. “That’s what he does. He finds the will of the rukh, and he helps it. And when people are in trouble, when all the flow is knotted up, he straightens it out. That’s what _h’reg_ means.”

“Deep in.” Morgan scowled at the tower, eyes creased as if she wanted to pounce, just not quite yet....

Gripped branches, bark powdering a little before she eased up. “They use poison gas. What can you do about that, without Amon’s fire?”

“I’m kind of hoping to make it so they don’t see us,” Aladdin admitted. “When they do see us - then I’m going to use Wind and Borgs, like we did in the storm drains. Ja’far’s antivenom spell works, but it’s not fast. Though... yeah.” He beamed at them. “I can start that spell on all of us _now_ , and just keep it going. It’s on us, not the air around us, so the slavers won’t see it unless they see _us_.”

“So even if they catch us on camera, that should give you enough time to get a Borg up once they start setting poisons loose.” Morgan nodded. “We can follow the bright rukh to Alan?”

“I guess that’s the one good thing about going after slavers,” Aladdin shrugged, and smiled at Maria. “It’s like what we did this morning to find you. He’s the only bright spot in the place.”

“Then I have a plan,” Morgan stated. “It starts with being invisible.”

* * *

_Still cold_. Alan kept his teeth apart to keep them from chattering, trying to let any hint of resentment go. It’d taken what felt like forever, but Sarah had finally managed to calm her breathing to the point of at least a fuzzy trance. Matt was a nice kid, but at his age, squirmy was a Thing - and given his safety had to be giving his mother panicky fits, that hadn’t helped.

“Okay,” he got out. “You know the rukh... the butterflies. What they look like. What they feel like. What you want to do is kind of... pattern what you feel, closer to them. Like - matching a tune you don’t know on the radio. Kind of hum along with it, until it comes in clear?”

“It whispers.” Sarah’s face wasn’t clear through the tank, but he could see her shudder of disgust. “It’s - not all friendly.”

No; with a bunch of slavers and magoi-drainers lairing here, it wouldn’t be. “Stay away from the dark stuff,” Alan said firmly. “Think happy thoughts. Quiet. Like sunrise.”

_That’s not going to be enough. Not in a place this dark_.

He still wasn’t sure of all the ways Aladdin had changed the rukh in those long centuries of sleep. But based on what he’d seen so far, and what he’d seen in the past with Hakuryuu-

_Dark rukh is still from dark emotions. Hate. Despair. Something gone terribly wrong_.

It was awful and agonizing and tried to drag you down, like an anchor into the deepest ocean - but deep down, dark rukh was a cry for help. A demand to be heard.

Alan lifted his head, and stared back at fluttering darkness. _I can hear you_.

It was like wading into sizzling acid. The lava-rush of anger, the electric shock of betrayal, the slow agony of souls crumbling in utter despair....

_‘I’ll see you burn in hell, Shays!’_

_‘Leagued with the devil all along, y’ bloody sassenach? We trusted you - I trusted you-!’_

_‘I want to go home! Mama! Papa!_ Mama! _’_

Ancient voices. Modern voices. Accents of Guatemala and Ireland; of London’s ancient poorhouses, and all the back streets of Boston. Anywhere, everywhere, lost souls might vanish, and never be missed.

The voices were horrible enough. The memories-

_Fading every day in the darkness, too tired to eat even as he starved._

_Yanking at chains until wrists tore and bled; it couldn’t end this way, it couldn’t-!_

_Screaming at violating hands; three held her down while a fourth lurked in the shadows, drawing in fluttering power_ -

_‘We hate them,’_ the rukh hissed. _‘We hate them, we hate them, we HATE THEM!’_

_I know_ , Alan tried to whisper back. _I’m going to stop them_.

Disbelief. Mocking laughter, in a shiver of black wings; did he even believe he could save himself?

_Yes. I do_. Alan blinked, letting the tears slip free. _I’m not alone. I will get us out of here_.

“Alan?”

“Don’t worry about me,” Alan said hoarsely, vision wavering between the cold-lit lab and the Toolmakers’ centuries of horror. “Just - keep trying.”

* * *

It was like jumping into the Drake Passage. Without the protective gear he’d worn that one time he really had taken a dip off the Antarctic ice shelf. Cold, and winds tearing, waves tearing, not at flesh but at his very soul-

: _My king. Hold fast! Just a little longer_ -:

Warm arms wrapped around him, Fanalis-strong. So gentle, compared to the implacable grip that had helped Tiburon and Ja’far grab, pin, and poke with venom-laced fingers the two startled guards currently tied up and out cold inside a nondescript white van.

_...At least I helped with something_....

It was a thin glimmer of confidence, to try to brighten the clouds of despair choking him. He’d thought himself a good fighter, a trained one, but once they’d scouted the freestanding garage at the end of the Shays’ gravel road and picked their entry door, his friends had moved so fast-

_They knew they might have to kill. And I - I_....

He hadn’t been the only one to hesitate. Drakon had drawn his gun, and aimed, but when it came to actual shooting, the agent had-

Well. There’d been people in the way. It would have been a bad idea.

_Oh, take the easy way out_ , the dark whispered. _You’re no warrior. Just an actor. Just a scared man too cowardly to_ -

: _You are not a coward!_ : Baal’s voice thundered in his mind. : _It is not cowardly not to kill when there is_ no need! _Your Generals chose their strikes well; had fate rolled against them, you both would have been in reserve to save their damned hides! Simon, my king, listen_....:

“Simon.” Malachy’s voice was quiet, and strong as steel. “It’s not real.”

“No, the problem is for him it is real,” Tiburon hissed. Something sparked on the freight elevator controls, and he swore. “Damn, I wish I’d had the chance to bring my break-in kit - Drakon, stop fiddling with their tablets and help Malachy hang onto him. Simon’s in trouble from something I can’t even see, and I’ll be damned if we let him sink again!”

The FBI agent gripped Simon’s shoulders, solid and frowning as the rock of Gibraltar. Simon blinked, the dimly-lit garage fading in past images of frozen horror. “What happened?” _What’s still happening, something’s screaming at me, pushing_....

“We didn’t have the words to describe it, in the old days.” Ja’far was leaning over where Tiburon was messing with what had been a security-locked panel, lending a spark or two as the swordsman gleefully crossed circuits. “It’s a bit like....” The ex-assassin paused, looking over his shoulder with a familiar evil smirk.

_Oh no_. Simon braced himself against strong hands as Baal chuckled. Obviously the Djinn was taking completely unfair advantage of his connection to Sei to get in on the joke early, and that meant it had to be _awful_ -

“A bit like being a Jedi,” Ja’far mused.

_Augh! No! Anything but that!_ “I am not!” Just in time, Simon managed to keep it to a strangled whisper. “This is revenge, isn’t it, you evil magician. Why are you taking out the Disney jokes on me?”

“I wish it was a joke.” Ja’far glanced away. “Magicians see the rukh. Kings are _sensitive_ to it, especially after they’ve contracted with a Djinn. It’s two very different things. In the past, Sinbad and Alibaba were some of the worst affected by dark rukh. Most of the other Djinn Warriors weren’t nearly as badly hit, even with a Medium right in front of them. I think... in the Kou Empire, only Hakuryuu and Kouha really understood how horrible black rukh could be. Hakuryuu Fell, and Kouha loved his brothers too much to want to make the connection between Empire policies-” Ja’far cut himself off, shaking his head. “Later. Just - think of it like being an empath with lousy shielding. That hate and anger _isn’t you_. Try to keep it out.”

Drakon frowned. “Empath. You’re reacting to other captives?”

“Past captives,” Ja’far said grimly. “But they never really left. They’ve never escaped what was done to them. Even in death.”

“Even in....” Drakon paled.

Tiburon hissed another swear at the wiring. “This isn’t the time!”

“Yes it is,” Malachy stated, voice low. “We need to know where to look for hostages.”

“Down,” Simon stated, shaken at his own surety. Though granted, there wasn’t any other direction this elevator could go. “The spirits, the... presence left in the rukh.... They take them down. Into the darkness.” He shuddered, only half-certain he was actually _here_ , with two people he cared about hanging on, instead of-

_Being shredded by claws of something that couldn’t be real, skin and flesh peeled away in a spray of blood_ -

_Screaming in a man’s grasp, all dignity and hope ravaged away-_

_Hating and hating even from death, reaching out with insubstantial hands to sizzle circuits for one moment of anger. Hating even the little girl they helped escape, because she was dragging children out who weren’t their children, because she was fighting and_ alive-

: _Hold on, my king. Hold to yourself. These are_ not _your people_.:

It was true. It was... insulating, somehow. It hurt, it was horrible what the Shays had done, it turned his stomach - but they hadn’t done it to _his people_.

_Not to mine_. “Alan,” Simon whispered, suddenly colder than even the rukh’s touch. “These spirits - these were _Alan’s_ people.”

Through the misty images, he saw Ja’far swallow hard.

But the magician braced himself, and put a hand on Tiburon’s shoulder as their swordsman paled. “You weren’t there in Balbadd. He’s faced this before. He’ll be all right.”

“ _Alibaba’s_ faced this before.” Tiburon’s face was still drawn, as he checked his hasty handiwork. “Alan-”

“Has the same strength,” Ja’far said steadily. “Better yet, he’s just a teenager. What are the odds they let him talk?”

Tiburon stifled a half-hysterical chuckle. “Those poor bastards.”

Simon traded a glance with Drakon as the garage faded in and out. Damn, he really needed to get a handle on this, for a moment Drakon’s incredulous eyebrows had looked pure moss green. “I know he can talk a Djinn into reconsidering swatting people, but if you think he can break the spirits of people who’ve caused this much pain-”

“No,” Ja’far said, almost smiling. “Alan doesn’t break spirits. He fixes them.”

“And then there are Roaring Rampages of Hope.” Tiburon eased his grip off twisted wires, waiting to see if they’d stay put, and tapped the lift button. Above them, a motor started humming. The swordsman grinned fiercely, and glanced about to be sure everyone was ready, just in case their elevator brought unexpected company. “You might not remember the details, but believe me, it’s what saved Sinbad at the last.”

“It would,” Drakon said firmly. “Anger born of hate is a flickering ember; a coal in the night, that burns you even as it keeps you alive. Anger born of love....” The agent looked down at his own hands, that had nearly strangled his partner; that held Simon now, even against the darkness. “In the grip of that, you can do anything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mishawum - Yes, I'm making up a small town and naming it after a Boston-area train stop. I don't know enough about Greater Boston to pick an appropriate area to destroy. Sorry!  
> Sassenach - Gaelic for “Englishman”. Said correctly, it has a positively venomous hiss.   
> Rappaccini’s Daughter - a short story by Hawthorne, based on the Indian legend of the Visha Kanya (Sanskrit विष कन्या; singular: Visha Kanya), or Poison Maiden. Very effective, very creepy story.   
> In regards to who’s the real villains here.... Callimachus is amoral, prone to a kind of tunnel vision, and cruel. He sees himself as True Neutral. He’s probably closer to Neutral Evil. He is not, however, _Stupid_ Evil.


	21. With Catlike Tread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our Heroes boldly sneak into the Dark Lair of their enemies, silent as ninjas-! 
> 
> Well. Some of them do. 
> 
> (As Ja'far puts it, "And then Simon opened his mouth...")

Morgan glanced at the sky above them one more time, storing up the sight of sunlight against the darkness she knew was down there. She might not see it, not like Aladdin and Maria could, but she thought she could almost smell the dark rukh fluttering through the air, like a ghost of memory.

_Bitter. Like tears. Like blood_.

The tower top was featureless, built of closely-fitted stones the same granite-gray as the tumbled walls that laced the woods here. Only a wooden trapdoor broke the surface, weathered nearly as gray as the stone.

Morgan bent low to sniff the edges of the door, searching for any trace of electronics or plastic. “Nothing.” She took a deeper breath. “I think... there’s wiring deeper in the tower. But not close. And....” She hesitated. “I smell _nothing_. Just stones, and a little dust.”

“What do you mean, nothing?” Aladdin frowned.

Maria was looking around the tower top, eyes wide. “No bird droppings.” She dropped onto her knees, poking in corners. “No spiders. There are _always_ spiders.”

“Nothing alive,” Morgan nodded, ice tickling along her nerves. “Bugs should get past that door. But I don’t smell them. Just... dust. Like things died and dried out, years ago.”

“Not even rats?” Dark eyes went wider. “There are _always_ rats, if there are even dead bugs to munch.”

“Not even them,” Morgan agreed, grim.

“That makes sense,” Aladdin said, voice uncharacteristically tight. Held his wand over the edge of the doorframe, moving it slow and steady as a slug racing for the damp grass. “It feels like Magnostadt. The 5th Authorization District.” He swallowed. “Rats couldn’t live there, either.”

_Where everyone’s magoi was drained_ , Morgan remembered, Aladdin’s tales from another life whispering in her mind. “Will we be able to stand it?”

Aladdin nodded. “I’ll just reinforce the antivenom spell some more. Any magoi drain will yank energy off that first.” Finished tracing the edge, he frowned. “No alarm wards.”

“Makes sense,” Morgan observed.

“...How can that make sense?” Aladdin objected.

“It’s a trap,” Morgan said levelly. “The best traps don’t look like traps. Not on the outside.” Bracing herself, she yanked the trapdoor open.

_Oh, definitely a trap_.

She leaned on the edge of the doorframe, lips quirking in wry amusement. No stairs leading down. Of course. But there was a very obvious trapdoor on the floor below, leading deeper into the windowless tower. “They want people to come in. And not get out.” She took another sniff. “I think we’ll be safe until we try to open the next door.”

Aladdin glanced down, then at the open trapdoor leaning on the roof. “So... should we wreck all the hinges as we go through?”

“That depends.” Morgan glanced at Maria. “Do you think something might get out behind us?”

“...Maybe?” Maria managed.

“I believe you,” Aladdin said gently. “Okay. So we’ll just have to get creative on the way out.”

Morgan grinned, rubbing her hands in anticipation.

Aladdin saw her look, and chuckled. “I knew you’d like that.” Straightened, and held out a hand to each of them.

Light as feathers, they dropped into the room, hovering inches above the floor.

Morgan took a breath, and narrowed her eyes at the trapdoor on this floor. The light in here wasn’t the best, even with the door over them open. But it was enough to see a darker spot in the darkness of the fine line between trapdoor and frame. “Pressure sensor in the door.” At least it looked like one, from Uncle Tiburon’s lessons. “It’s meant to set off an alarm if the door opens.”

“If you wish to catch a rat, know when the cheese is bitten,” Maria got out. “And, there is... black in the door?”

“Gravity magic wards.” Aladdin sounded almost too cheerful. “I bet it’s set to yank the door closed when people go through.”

“...No.” Maria blinked, as if she were trying to see through fog. “No, it - it closes when there is no one here. In _this_ room.”

Morgan glanced at her, weighing the scent of fear versus the pale determination on Maria’s face. “You remember?”

“It is like looking through the highland mists.” Maria swallowed. “I think so. But - not clear. Nothing is clear.”

“So we’re going the right way.” Morgan held out a hand. “Gum.”

One hand reached for her jeans pocket before Maria stopped, and gave her a look. “Gum will not stop magic!”

“Aladdin can handle magic,” Morgan said calmly. “I’m going to handle the sensor.” _I hope_.

Luckily, the little bits of tool and wire she needed now had been in a pouch in her sweatshirt pocket, not her backpack. After all, when he’d taught her and her cousins these tricks, Uncle Tiburon had been very, very clear.

_“If you need to breach a security system, you need this_ on you. _Don’t worry about what the cops will think. Be polite, be wide-eyed and innocent, give them no trouble at all, and they probably won’t even bother to search you. If they do? We can always bail you out._

_“But if you need this, really need this - cops are the least of your worries.”_

“Huh.”

About to reach for the sensor, Morgan froze. “Aladdin?”

“Oh! No, it’s not the door. Exactly. It’s something in the spells on both doors, old magoi... just keep doing what you’re doing,” Aladdin said thoughtfully. “I’m going to ask the rukh here a few questions.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow; then shrugged, and went back to work, ignoring the whispers he traded with Maria and the wind. Aladdin had been in on breakouts before. She trusted his judgment. If he saw something she needed to know, he’d tell her.

_Bit of copper in the gum to bridge the circuit, and... there_.

One pressure sensor, cheerfully reporting it was closed even as she eased the trapdoor open. Slowly. Gently. _Smoothly_ ; Uncle Tiburon had always stressed that, because someone who used one sensor might use more, and why set them off by accident? “This one’s set.”

Aladdin let out a relieved breath, and then laughed. “Oh, awesome. Maria, look at that!”

“It is- but how-?”

Rolling some tension out of her shoulders, Morgan eyed them both.

Maria blushed. “It is... there is fire on the trap spells.”

Morgan frowned, worried. “Alan was brought through here?” That didn’t seem right. Why would the Toolmakers risk bringing someone as dangerous as Alan by way of a tower trapdoor? That gave him far too many chances to get away.

“No, it’s old fire,” Aladdin said quickly, bobbing up and down in the air a quarter of an inch as he stifled a laugh. “Something that happened here a long time ago. It’s like - you know how a crocodile’s jaws are meant to clamp closed, so they’re really hard to open?”

“But the muscles are weak the other way, so keep their jaws closed and they’re easier to fight,” Morgan nodded. “The trap spells are like that?”

“A little,” the magi agreed. “Well, the way the stones here still grumble a little about fire - Alan _was_ here. Years ago. At least as far as this door. And I think he kind of talked the spells into thinking they might be open when they weren’t. And then....” He moved his hand just above the floor, whispering. “The rukh here remembers you, Maria. And it felt you trying to get out, and - it remembered the pattern-of-fire.”

Maria moved her hand to just beside his, then touched the cloth of her shirt just above the crystal cross. “You can tell? It is so... dim? Not lit?”

“Faint?” Aladdin suggested. “It is. But I’ve had to look for Ali- for Alan’s rukh in some pretty weird places. I know what his magoi feels like, even years later.”

Morgan tried not to shiver. She remembered the way her Household Vessel had guttered out; the cold fear that had clutched her heart at the knowledge that Alibaba was dead, dead at the hands of a friend he’d loved, dead and she hadn’t even been there....

_He wasn’t dead. Not quite. He came back. It just - took him a while_.

Maria rested her hand near Aladdin’s again, and shook her head. “But Alan is not a magician!”

“He’s a _king_ ,” Aladdin told her again, face lit with patient humor. “If the rukh can help him look after his people, it will.”

“He did not even know I was here!”

And Morgan could hear all the doubt in there, all the fear. _What if he did know, why didn’t he help, why did we suffer so long?_

“He didn’t know,” Morgan said firmly. “He’s not a magician. He has to work to see the rukh; I don’t think he saw it at all until he met Aladdin. But he can feel it. Like....” She cast about for something that might be close. “He is like Han. Aladdin can see the rukh, like Jedi feel the Force. Alan just gets a _bad feeling about this_.” She drew in the scents from beyond the door. “No one’s close, but I can smell air that leads to people.”

Aladdin peered through the trapdoor with her. “Stairs this time. They really wanted people to come down.”

“We... should not touch them, if we can.” Maria was blinking, trying to stare at the old wrought-iron railing that curled in a spiral with circling stone. “The stone and the iron - wants something we do not have. But if we only climbed the iron....”

Morgan frowned, wishing she had a magician’s eyes. “It’s a circuit?”

“Earth to Earth through Life.” Aladdin was glaring at the stairs as if he wanted to set them on fire. “Touch both of them, and it drains magoi right out of you. But just touch the iron-”

He reached through to grab it, and Morgan felt like shaking him.

Aladdin flexed his fingers around metal, grinning. “Yeah. It doesn’t latch on if you’re not touching the stairs. They must have some kind of shoes or a pass that makes the stairs ignore them.”

Morgan hissed. “Tell me before you do that!”

Maria flinched, and Aladdin’s shoulders drooped a little. “I should have,” he admitted. “But... Alan’s in here. And we’re running out of time.”

“Yes.” Morgan jerked her chin down once, acknowledging that grim fact. “Just - be as careful as I remember you.”

Blue eyes lit again, seizing iron as he floated them down to the next door. “I’ll watch for magic. You watch for everything else!”

* * *

“Drat it all to _Hades-!_ ”

“No go on the handcuff key?” Alan shivered in the water, trying not to listen too hard to _Won’t work, won’t work, you’ll never get free, suffer with us forever!_ “Figured.”

Oh, he knew that ragged catch of Sarah’s breath. That was someone digging into anger to keep from crying. “If you think I was going to settle for _playing with light_ instead of a key-!”

“Easy. Easy,” Alan soothed, holding onto the light in his heart like a life preserver. _Morg. Aladdin. Master Tiburon. I_ will _get out of here_. “It was a good idea. Key tucked into your bracelet with the rest of the charms - your husband’s a great guy, I like him already. I just mean they look shiny, but they’re _old_ manacles. Not cut to standard.”

“...There’s a standard.”

Oof, flat fury. Not good. “Since the sixties, I think?” Alan ventured. “I, um... when Mom knew I really liked locks, well... we went out and bought some of the old ones?”

“Who wants old locks?” Matt piped up, glancing between them.

_Poor kid. He knows we’re in trouble. He knows it’s bad_. “I did?” Alan tried to put the shrug into his voice, given the water was leeching movement away. “’Course, Mom always said I had to keep them put away when I wasn’t playing. People get all freaked out about the craziest things, right, Matt? I bet your teachers would have a heart attack if you built a gun out of Legos. Wimps.”

“Yeah!”

Sarah groaned. “When we get out of here, young man, we’re going to have a long talk.”

_When. She said when. Yes!_ Alan flicked his thumb at some of the more depressing rukh. And if they didn’t get the ancient flip-off for what it was, that was their problem.

“...Domingo never said you had a lock collection.”

_Her breathing’s better. More even. Calming down, good._ “I keep it put away pretty well?” Alan tried.

A moment’s thoughtful silence. “I think my husband would love the chance to see it.”

_Ha. She gets it_.

Because if the FBI hadn’t found his locks, then they hadn’t found where he kept them, either. And if they hadn’t found that-

_Mom’s notes. The ones that had the real bombshells. They’re still there_.

“I still don’t get how butterflies can move a lock,” Matt grumped.

_Oh man, I remember being that young_. Alan grinned despite the chill. Matt was one sparkly, grumpy lump of, _Mom can do anything, so if she can’t get this right, you need to explain it again!_

And heck. It wasn’t like the kid was _wrong_. “Okay, this would give your science teachers fits, so listen up.”

Yep, definitely a spark of pure attention there. _Wonder if Simon’s interested in setting up an elementary school to go with Hancock... drifting, too cold, focus_. “There’s the physical world, where you can see a lot of what happens. Fires burn, rain comes down, earthquakes, the works. And then there’s the world in your mind, right? Where you dream stuff up, and hear words, and tell your body to move. Only sometimes it does, and sometimes it doesn’t - like when you’re really scared.” _Or freezing - try shivering a little, might help. Not much, water sucks away heat twenty-five times faster than air, why do I have to remember that...._

“...I guess?”

Right. Because no way was a kid his age going to admit being scared when he had to help Mommy. “Some guy I read said consciousness might be a quantum tunnel phenomenon... um, long words, yeah, let me think.” Sure, he’d read a lot of neat science news bit, but he was no physicist. And trying to fit together what he’d learned from Alma Torran magicians as his past self, and as who he was now - ow. Headache.

_But I’ve got something. I think_. “Okay, there’s the big world, which we see. There’s the smaller worlds we see and we guess are there, with microscopes and electrons and white-haired scientists going ‘Mwha-ha-hah!’ And... under that, tangled all through everything kind of like invisible spaghetti, there’s energy. That’s the rukh.”

Matt was silent for all of five seconds. “You said it was _butterflies_.”

“The butterflies, the birds - that’s the energy magicians can _see_ ,” Alan insisted. “The energy that’s moving around loose, maybe not connected to anyone right this second. That’s the easy stuff to tug on, if you get your mind to the right place. But there’s rukh in everything that exists. Even your handcuffs. Get that to move a little, the physical stuff will move right along with it.”

Silence, broken only by water rippling as he shuddered.

“...I can’t.” Sarah’s voice was quiet. Aching. “It’s steel. I can’t - I don’t even know how to pick a lock without a key, much less-”

“I do,” Alan cut her off. _Don’t let her doubt. Don’t let her fall into that tangle of grief, we can do this, I know it!_ “Listen. The rukh’s in everything. It’s part of everyone. If I know something, the rukh knows it, and you can lean on that even if you don’t know it. I swear.” _Think, magic’s mental, if she can’t imagine making the metal move, how do- oh._ “Don’t think of picking the lock. Think of asking someone to open it.” He licked his lips, trying to wear off the lingering taste of garlic. “Like - like putting your hands over mine when I pick the lock. ‘Cause that’s what you’re doing. Giving the rukh a little push, so it can take what I know and get the job done.”

“Putting my hands over yours,” Sarah said quietly. “But you’re-”

“A lot more stuck than you are,” Alan said bluntly. “Physically. Magically? I’m okay.” _Well. Kind of. For a little longer_. “We get you out, then we get me out. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sarah said softly. “Tell me what to do again.”

* * *

_There’s an entire subway hidden under Boston. Hidden with magic. I’ve fallen into the Dresden Files_.

Something Domingo had absolutely no intention of voicing out loud, as he moved forward to trade point with Tiburon, eyes searching along the rails for any tricks or traps the swordsman might possibly have missed. The madmen he was with would probably start arguing about who fit which character, and he’d be damned if he was going to be nicknamed Murphy. Drakon was better. Sort of. No matter how odd it was.

A distant rattle caught his ear; Domingo paused, waiting a moment to be sure the noise didn’t grow louder. Walking into enemy territory along subway tracks was not his idea of a good time. But given he’d seen Malachy already break, mangle, and bend steel bars like someone else might fiddle with pipe cleaners, he believed the man when the martial artist said he could drag them all to safety if a train did roar through. There was something about Malachy’s quiet confidence, his carefully banked fury at his niece’s peril, that anchored Domingo’s own rage. Let him contain it, and think, when otherwise he might have rushed headlong into deadly peril. Because he knew better, he _did_ \- but Sarah and Matt were the center of his world, and he wasn’t thinking straight, not at all.

_Well, if I’m insane, at least I’m in with the right crowd_ -

Ja’far straightened from a wary crouch, and held out an empty hand.

“What do you have?” Simon said quietly, hand on his cutlass.

Domingo almost rolled his eyes; yes, swords, he was with insane maniacs-

Except there was something in Ja’far’s palm. Not quite visible, more a heat-shimmer than anything his eyes could focus on - but something. Like a glitter of dust in sunlight.

“Wings of hope,” Ja’far answered, blinking as if he almost didn’t believe it himself. “Alan’s fighting their will in the rukh. They’ve done everything they can to darken it, and he’s- we need to move. Fast!”

Domingo caught the man by the shoulder before the so-called magician could pass him. Grimly aware, from the way muscles bunched under his grip, that he’d probably only hold Ja’far as long as the man let himself be held. “Move fast and we’ll trip alarms. _Explain_.”

“That’d take too long-”

“Then sum up,” Domingo suggested. _Puss in Boots, Dresden, now the Princess Bride - Matt is going to love this story, later_.

“Light rukh comes from hope,” Simon jumped in. “Dark rukh - well, you can guess. It’s easier for evil types to squeeze energy out of the dark stuff.”

“But if you stick a king in the middle of a mess of dark rukh, one of two things can happen,” Tiburon stated. “Either you corrupt the king, and everything goes dark - or you _don’t_.”

“Alan doesn’t give up,” Malachy agreed.

Domingo blinked. Took a breath, trying to juggle _magic_ in his head. “They’re about to have a massive power failure.”

“That’s possible.” Gray eyes were narrowed, staring down the length of the tunnel they still had to cover before they reached the main lab. “Or it could be worse.”

_“Worse?”_

Domingo glanced at the other three, wryly amused. So he wasn’t the only one trying not to gnaw nervous fingernails to the bone.

Ja’far cleared his throat. “What happens when you kick out the bottom of a domino tower?”

* * *

Sarah breathed in, then out, trying to match the wing-flutters of silver butterflies. The rukh, Alan called them; and the flashes of color she saw, blue and red and so many more, were keys to the kind of energy they held.

The ones gathering closest to her and Matt were silver flecked with white. She might have guessed they were wind even before Alan had said so; they whispered of _sky, hurtling, dancing, rattling branches in glee, tearing forests down-!_

Unnerving. But tame as a kitten, compared to the black fog of wings hissing around Alan.

_He’s drawing them away from us_ , Sarah realized, heart torn. Alan was a kid, he shouldn’t have to touch evil like this-

But Matt was her child, and she’d walk into hell to get him out of here in one piece.

_Focus. Call the rukh to you; to the lock_....

“Locks’re meant... to unlock.” Alan’s voice was slurred. Slow. Cold. “Don’ try to fight the lock. Jus’... remind it what it’s s’posed to do....”

The splash of water faded, lost under the hum of incandescent lights.

_Don’t look. You can’t help him if you panic, you have to get this right - oh god, I’m going to try magic, this is crazy_ -

“...Mommy?”

That warmth against her heart was the strength to do anything. For a moment she could feel the strength of wind inside the lock, feel the shape of toothed metal, feel air push- _“Open Sesame!”_

With a quiet snick, metal loosened. Hinges chimed against each other as the manacles fell into her lap.

“Whoa,” Matt breathed. “That was so cool- Mommy?”

“I’ll be okay,” Sarah managed, hearing that upward lilt of fear. “Mommy’s just a little dizzy. Like standing up too fast.”

She stood up anyway, dropping the chains on the bench in a shudder of disgust. “We need to get Alan out. I need a stool, a chair, something-”

“Over here!” Matt ran out and pounced, then started gamely pushing a short steel stepladder over toward Alan’s tank.

Sarah joined him, taking most of the weight even when her eyes wanted to see double. “Stay with me, Matt. This place was built by crazy people.” Her Matt was a smart boy, but this whole lab was a deathtrap and she didn’t want him poking his nose one inch where she couldn’t watch it. Radioactive materials, for the love of Mary. If she got out of here in one piece, she was going to kill someone.

_Better; I’ll let Domingo do it_ , Sarah thought, deliberately using the wry sarcasm to keep herself from dissolving in panicked tears. _He’ll appreciate someone to tear apart. Maybe even literally_.

The stepladder thumped against the tank in her haste. Whatever thick plastic it was made of, the wall didn’t vibrate; just thrummed dully, like a careless guitar player plucking strings. The water inside didn’t even ripple.

_The water’s not moving. Alan’s not moving, that darkness is everywhere-!_

There! The angle was bad, she didn’t have much leverage, and he was swarmed by those - horrible parts of the rukh-

But he was pale and blue and she was not going to wait. Sarah grabbed his hair and sodden collar, pulling slow when she wanted to yank. _They’re drawn to fear. Stay calm. Get him to you, wake him up._...

“Miz Dominguez...?”

Slurry as a three-day drunk, as her husband would say. But Alan was at least aware enough to remember who she was. Good. “I’m getting you out,” Sarah said fiercely. “Whatever you’re doing with the dark, stop it.”

“...Yes’m.”

The black wings didn’t stop coming. But the flutters of darkness thinned a little, enough that she could see wet hair as she dragged the teenager out of that killing water.

_He’s still fighting_ , Sarah thought, as wet hands fumbled on the edge of the tank; trying to help her pull him out, even as sickly purple thorns of energy tried to scrape their way out of the golden glow around Alan’s cuffs. _Stubborn kid_. “Come on, keep talking to me, we’re out of the water, that’s got to be better- eep!”

The shivers caught her off-guard; Sarah slipped and stumbled an extra rung down the stepladder as the teen shuddered. Her shoulder smacked against the side of the tank hard enough to make her nip her tongue. Though the taste of copper wasn’t half as scary as the way dark wings rustled, swarm thickening and _looking_ at her.

_Hypothermic_ , Sarah thought, half-slipping down onto the lab floor, trying not to crack either of their skulls as she dragged the teen over to a lab workstation. _Shivering is a good sign. I hope_. “Matt, get his shirt off.”

“But it’s cold in-”

“Wet clothes kill you faster.” Damn, she could hear Matt’s stifled sob, she wanted to say she didn’t mean it but there wasn’t _time_. It’d been a while since college chemistry but Sarah knew a Bunsen burner when she saw one; lousy heat source for a frozen kid, but right now it was what they had. _Striker, come on, tell me one of these drawers has - got you!_

Sarah pounced on the familiar flint-and-steel cup with its squeeze handles, making sure the knob was turned and the airslit at the bottom was closed before she tried to remember the exact scrape of the handles to make sparks. _Come on, come on_....

With a quiet whoomp, yellow flames burst up from the top of the barrel. Sarah almost dropped the striker on the black-slabbed bench, hand shaking as she opened the airslit to concentrate the gas into one roaring blue flame.

A blue flame that almost disappeared from her view, swarmed by red-touched rukh.

_Red wings... the red ones are_ warm.

Alan seemed to be breathing easier as she got him up on a pair of chairs, as close to the heat thrumming out of the burner as possible. More of the red rukh seemed to flutter in with the warmth, circling cold skin as if drawn to the boy.

_Each color is a kind of energy. Red is heat_ , Sarah realized. _There’s got to be something I can do with that_ -

“Mom?” Matt was waving a soaked paper notebook with a short pencil nub jammed through the spiral binding. “You think he takes notes like Dad does?”

“It wouldn’t surprise me at all,” Sarah breathed. She wasn’t about to open it, wet pages might disintegrate, but if Alan took notes in pencil.... “Where did you find this?”

“In his sleeve.” Matt grinned up at her, obviously relieved that Mom was back in charge. “Weird, huh? Is he a magician? Who keeps notes up their sleeve?”

“Someone who thinks he’s going to be searched,” Sarah muttered, turning back to yanking off soaked sneakers, socks, and jeans. She’d figure out what she could do with the rukh and warmth after she wasn’t trying to warm up half a tank of water with Alan. “Hold onto that, I’d better get his wallet too....”

His suspiciously stiff wallet. Sarah scowled at it, and felt wet fabric with her fingertips until she located the near invisible zipper. Tugged it down, just enough to get a look at what she’d suspected was in there.

_Well. Now I know Domingo will love this kid_. Sarah touched the fine steel picks, just once, before she zipped it back up and tucked the wallet into her own pocket. _But I don’t think picks will help with_ this.

“What are these things?” she muttered, not quite daring to poke the cloth-wrapped steel cuffs. The symbols on it... nothing about them individually looked unsettling, but the thorny vines of energy trying to sink into Alan’s skin put all the hairs up on the back of her neck. “You’re stopping them somehow, aren’t you? How?”

Well, _how_ was kind of obvious, she could see that heat-shimmer of gold thin and thicken with Alan’s breathing. Thicker now that warmth was sinking into her bones.

_Not my imagination. He’s drawing the red rukh. As if it... likes him_.

Better that than the dark ones, at least. Those hadn’t left. They were swirling through the air. _Waiting_.

Sarah narrowed her eyes at them. No matter what they looked like, she knew what they _felt_ like. “Anyone who gloats about someone failing, just because _they_ couldn’t do it, is nothing but a _bully_.” She raised a fist - never mind this was anger, this was anger over children, over someone who’d _tried to help_ , and there was nothing of cowardice in it. “If you’re not going to help, then get out of my way!”

There was a thunder of wings, black withdrawing as red crowded nearer.

“Wow.” Matt was clinging to her pants, eyes wide. “How’d you make it brighter in here?”

_So Matt can see them. At least a little_. “Told some idiots to behave themselves,” Sarah said firmly. “Come on, let’s get Alan closer to the heat.” Though not so close he burned himself, the shivers were hard and fast now; a good sign, she’d heard, someone really hypothermic was too cold to shiver-

A cold hand tried to close fingers on her arm. “Where’re my pants?”

“Soaking wet on the floor,” Sarah informed him. “Get up closer to the fire... how do we get these cuffs off? I can’t find a keyhole.”

“Isn’t one. Doesn’t matter.” Alan blinked at the flames, drawing in a breath as if-

_No. Not as if_ , Sarah realized, wide-eyed. _The red rukh is trying to_ help _him_.

“ _Khul ja shem-shamayim!_ ”

Cloth tore. Steel made a grinding, teeth-gritting rasp, as if rusted bolts were being yanked apart by sheer torque-

The wrecked cuffs fell onto the lab bench, and Alan sagged against her.

“He is a magician!” Matt swarmed up onto the bottom rung of one chair, trying to look Alan in the eye. “Why didn’t you do that before?”

“T-too c-cold,” the teenager got out. “Couldn’t... break them... and stay ‘wake too....”

_No, he couldn’t_ , Sarah realized, chilled. _If he got as dizzy as I did - he would have drowned._

_He thought that through. While he was terrified. While he was freezing to death_. “Alan - who _are_ you?”

Alan wrapped himself around the burner, an impossible silken thread of red energy spinning from gas flames to his hands. “Just a guy trying to look after his people.” His voice was less slurred, but still exhausted. “Ma’am. Can you hear the red rukh?”

_Flowing chewy air om nom nom_ , were the nearest whispers, when Sarah tried to focus on reddened wings. _Human/not-human/elemental-bound? Poke! Ally, knows us; help him help us_....

Sarah swallowed dryly. Creatures that seemed to be pure energy saw Alan as someone who knew them? “I... think so.”

“Good.” Alan’s teeth didn’t quite clip the edge of the word off; he shuddered, skin goose-pimpled even as the water started to dry off of him. “He doesn’t feel that far, if I just knew which direction to reach... ask them where there’s a really big concentration of fire rukh.”

* * *

Concealed under the lip of a subway platform that Drakon’s maps swore didn’t exist, Ja’far peeked out just enough to get a second look at the armed guards inside and outside of reinforced doors big enough to take a whole van through. _Six I can see, and the doors are between us and three of them. Direct assault? We’re fast, much faster than anything they’ve ever run into. Drakon doesn’t have a magoi boost but he’s still faster than most... no, no good, we’d only have one ranged fighter, Tiburon doesn’t have a distance weapon without his Vessel. Even if Malachy and I rush them, they’d have time to set off an alarm. And I’ve never been good with sleeping spells. Illusions, maybe; but we don’t have a handy magi with us for a recharge, and power I spend on that is power I don’t have to swat more drugs. Besides, what illusion would make them ignore the five of us?_ “We have a problem.”

“No, really?” Tiburon muttered.

“Can’t believe this,” Drakon breathed, eyes wide as he took in every damning detail; lights, bulletproof glass doors, all the machinery needed for a freight-handling subway car. “I’ve seen Chicago air terminals with less security. How could they have hidden this so long? And _don’t_ tell me magic. Magic can’t hide power bills!”

“Bribes,” Malachy shrugged. “Leave a bit off the map. Offer a job. Dig up dirty laundry. Doesn’t take magic.”

“Hmm.” Simon didn’t quite glance past the edge, face still in a way that usually meant he was blocking out scene directions in his head. “So. We need to get in there. But we can’t get in there without drawing attention?”

Ja’far scowled toward the platform. Trust Simon to put his finger on the problem- wait. Wait, what had he just said-?

“Without them setting off an alarm,” Tiburon started.

In one fluid motion, Simon flipped up and over the platform edge.

For a split second Ja’far was frozen. Because Simon _couldn’t_ have done that a week ago, you’d have to be a practicing ninja-climber to get that much strength into a hand-grip-

“Good evening, gentlemen!” Simon strode right up to the nearest incredulous suit as casually as he’d stroll the red carpet. “Can you tell me how to get to the Kingston Line from here?”

Drakon made a choked noise.

Ja’far groaned in utter and total sympathy. “Murder him later, back him up _now_.”

Flipped up and over himself, Tiburon fast behind him, both of them ducking by sheer instinct as they heard something metal screech and tear.

Malachy’s ripped-up bit of rails whipped an inch over their heads, paired prongs crashing through bulletproof glass like an unwieldy javelin.

Ja’far grinned fiercely, leaping through shattered glass to leave blood and swearing minions in his wake. _Oh, I’ve missed fighting with a Fanalis!_

Tiburon was one bare step behind; laughing, low and unnerving, as he put down the last of the guards on this side of the glass with the blunt side of his sword. “Oh, I’ve missed that. _Hello, it’s us!_ ” Wrenching the most conscious man’s hand behind his back to tie him with his own belt, the swordsman glanced out past the glittering edge, where Simon and Drakon had cutlass and gun cornering the last standing guard as Malachy casually cracked the other two’s skulls together. “Nice!”

“That actually worked.” Simon’s eyes were shining, a hint of sparks dancing on his blade. “See? What were you worried about? They didn’t get to-”

Which, of course, was when Ja’far spotted a shadow in the corridor beyond the freight elevator. _Damn it! Have to_ -

Rope-knives whipped out, lightning-fast. The stray minion didn’t have time to squeak, muscles flung into bone-breaking spasms as he jerked against the wall. But one finger managed to find something on his belt, and jab home.

Sirens started blaring, and four irate Generals glared at the man responsible.

Simon spread his hands, one still full of steel and magic. “...Oops?”

* * *

The only warning Aladdin had was Morgan’s smile.

Then the whole air was yelling, louder than the bus station fire alarms, rukh fluttering in surprise and anticipated violence.

Red hair blazed as Morgan leapt, bringing down the door to the first sublevel and the armed guy behind it in one heavy-metal clang.

She skidded off the door as it tilted, already leaping for the guard’s partner in a flurry of fists and one ominous _crack_.

But it was a crack, not a gristly crunch, Aladdin realized, jumping in after with his wand out to slash up the stone of the walls into snake-like manacles and a sandy gag on guard number three. Arm bone; painful, sure, but not the quick kill of a broken neck.

And he knew that just by listening. Even through a shrieking alarm. Maybe he’d been around Fanalis a little too long.

A soft gulp hit the air behind him. “...We were being quiet?” Maria tried to whisper.

Morgan thumped once more on her groaning opponents’ heads. “Stay down.” She straightened, lean and fluid as a sand tiger. “It would have taken too long to sneak past them anyway. I can smell Alan. He’s close.” Her nose wrinkled as she glanced down the long corridor. “And I smell other hurt people. Behind those doors.”

There were a _lot_ of doors.

_I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know, I already know too much, I could tear this whole place apart and I wouldn’t ever feel sorry until later, and that won’t help anybody-!_

Aladdin raised his wand, and slashed it down in a cutting wind.

_Just the doors with life. Only open the doors with life_.

Three doors. Only three. One of those had armed men, staring as they looked up from some kind of meal out of boxes-

And then Morgan was in the midst of them. There were screams.

Aladdin rushed in after her, wand swooping in a rope of stone-made-sand to catch and entangle anyone who looked like they were going for a weapon.

_This isn’t like fighting pirates, or even bandits. They’re hurting people. We are_ not _fighting fair_.

A few more seconds, and Morgan had cracked the last pair of skulls together. Aladdin locked the hands of anyone still moving in stone, and took a breath. “Are you okay?”

Morgan tapped her toes on the floor, gaze flickering over the guardroom to be sure there wasn’t some poor dumb idiot crazy enough to try hitting them. “I’m fine.”

_No you’re not_ , Aladdin knew, seeing the fire in red eyes. But she wasn’t hurt, and Alan wasn’t _here_ , which meant they didn’t have time to stand around and worry-

Doors away, Maria gasped. “I have found someone!”

Morgan glanced around the room once more, and headed that way.

Aladdin paused in the doorway. “They might have keys-”

“We don’t have _time_ for keys.”

And this was a hunt and Morgan knew hunting in this world and he was _not_ going to argue. Not when he could hear dark rukh whispering all through this awful tower, angry and venomous and... confused.

_Why isn’t he failing?_ came the hiss of dark wings. _Why isn’t he dead?_

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Aladdin muttered to passing darkness. “He’s _Alibaba_. Don’t you know the Sinbad fairytales?”

Some dark wings swirled in confusion. Others seemed to hover, like a dazed blink of darkness. But a few-

_Augh run away run_ away!

Aladdin didn’t watch them scatter, busy helping Morgan and Maria break chains and drag two emaciated bodies out of their prison cells, back to the stairwell. The alarms were a little quieter there, muffled by stone and distance. “There’s going to be more fighting. If we make you a door, can you get them out?”

“Make a door?” Maria said shakily, supporting a youngster who had to weigh barely half of what she did.

Morgan grinned, bounced up to the ground floor landing, and drew her leg up for a kick.

Fanalis bone and muscle versus antique stonework. Swooping his turban under their rescued kids, Aladdin had to grin too. _Poor stones_.

Knocking out a few blocks on each side to widen the hole, Morgan reached over to help Maria and her charges through. “Going up!”

* * *

Even down on the third sublevel, Phaenomena felt the tower tremble.

Shays dropped stubborn steel on the table as the alarms kept ringing, head snapping up at glints of power Phaenomena knew she couldn’t see. It should have clattered on the table, but she couldn’t make it out through the blaring noise. “The intruder alert? But who - how-?”

“I suspect that would be your new guests,” Callimachus said dryly. Carefully - obviously - stepping back and away. Drawing all the eyes in the room with his utter, casual nonchalance. “Were I you, I would start worrying. Now.”

“Worry?” Shays’ lip curled. “About mere hedge magoi-users?”

“Hmm, no,” Callimachus mused. “I was more referring to....”

Fire roared up from steel, white-hot and angry. The center of the table disintegrated, fiery steel dropping to the floor and _snarling_ its way through tile and bracing wood.

“That,” Callimachus said dryly. “And also, _this_.”

Smiling, Phaenomena unsheathed the blade she’d snatched, and drove in for the kill.

* * *

_“Simon-!”_

“Right, right, annoying noise anyway,” Simon said hurriedly, poking at various controls on the monitor station near the elevator that looked promising. “Come on, this button is obviously an _on_ , there has to be an off!”

“Not necessarily,” Tiburon shot back, searching the station just as frantically, scooping up anything that looked like a stray bit of data storage that Drakon didn’t get to first. Though the FBI agent had hauled out a few of his own flash drives, and was pulling something on the nearest computer that Simon sort of doubted was entirely legal. “This isn’t a standard setup-”

Ja’far’s hand slapped Tiburon’s away from one particular button. “Trapped!”

Tiburon swore. “They’ve mixed tech and magic all through here. You probably need a magic key to turn the bloody alarm off-”

Malachy’s hand rested on Simon’s shoulder. “They know we’re here. Give us an advantage.”

_Me? But what can I do? I’m no security expert, I’m not a soldier, I’m just_ -

: _You were never “just” anything, my king._ :

_...Oh_.

Malachy grabbed Tiburon and Drakon as he moved, hauling them clear of anything metal.

_“Bararaq Saiqa!”_

Lightning struck with his cutlass, stabbing deep into the heart of the security station before lashing out like a spiderweb of sparks. Lights and sirens flickered, screeched-

Died.

_Hmm. Dark in here_.

Beside him, Simon felt Ja’far’s deep sigh.

“Shield your eyes, Malachy.” A click, and Tiburon had a small, red-lit flashlight on. “Oh. And just breathe, Drakon. Breathe.”

Numbly, the agent took what was left of his flash drive out of the computer port. “What - what was that?”

“Our advantage,” Simon said confidently. “Let’s go!”

* * *

_Immoral, incompetent, insane magicians!_

Amon shaped stored magoi with his will, burning his way through the rock and other paltry barriers between himself and his king. Fortunate that the youth had kept the Vessel on him as long as possible; unlike some of the early days with Alibaba, when a hidden prince had sometimes been unnerved enough by what had taken refuge in his treasured steel to consider leaving knife and all in the wandering dunes. Rashid Saluja’s third son had wanted wealth to restore his homeland, yes, but a Djinn’s searing power?

As Alan might say, _Not so much_.

It probably wouldn’t have done any good to blame Judar for shutting the dimensional gate and cutting off the time they should have had to explain kings, contracts, and exactly what Alibaba had won by surviving a dungeon with his body and heart intact. Not when Amon himself had been less than amused that the Lord of all Djinn had brought him a king candidate with low magoi, low self-esteem, and no sense of dignity whatsoever.

...Well, not entirely true. Alibaba had been raised as a prince for a few years, so he did have a shaky idea of what dignity was. Sort of. He just didn’t consider it nearly as high on his list of priorities as, say, making sure everyone around him scraped through the next disaster in one piece.

_As we have done before_ , Amon thought, reaching out toward that sense of his king. No matter that steel was not touching skin; with his king’s skills, they only had to be close. _As we shall do again_ -

_“Amon!”_

He wrapped power around his king as a second skin; steel unfolding into the young man’s favored sword, flames clothing them in gold and silk and lava. The third eye opened-

_Ah. So this is where we are_.

Hmph. Darkened stone walls, tainted Life Magic, stolen magoi, and a viciousness in the rukh Amon hadn’t tasted in centuries, held at bay by the swirl of hope around his king and the two humans he was bent on rescuing.

Or, for a king, Tuesday.

_A young Wind Magician, and a magoi-strong boy_ , Amon judged, seeing the wonder in the Matt’s eyes, the amazed caution in his mother’s. Evidently whatever horrors Sarah already witnessed had not prepared her for the reality of her rescuer being able to dwell in the heart of fire. _Give the boy a decade, he might be a King’s Candidate himself_....

For a moment his vision wavered, and Amon frowned. : _My king. Do not fall asleep_.:

: _But I’m warm_...:

: _Alan!_ :

* * *

_Right. Falling asleep in the middle of Equip, bad_ , Alan told himself groggily, shaking his head. At least this time he wasn’t surprised by the sudden weight of hair, or the warm pressure of the golden torque at his throat, or the odd shimmer of, well, _everything_ , as the third eye let him see the rukh clearly. It was familiar as a favorite t-shirt. Comfortable. So nice and toasty warm....

_Argh_.

He let Amon’s Sword dip into the flames of the gas burner, drawing in all the fire magoi they could. Tame stuff next to a volcano, but he’d take what he could get. “Matt? Mrs. Dominguez? You okay?”

Son wrapped in her arms, Sarah swallowed. “You’re on _fire_.”

“Cool!” Matt chirped.

“It’s kind of a long story,” Alan said shyly. “Short version - this is something a few people can do, with a lot of rukh. And a friend. My friend’s Amon.” He shrugged. “But I’m going to need your help. Amon can only help me do this if I’m _awake_.”

Sarah glanced at the tank, water shimmering in the firelight, then at the shattered cuffs. “You’re... tired.” Shook her head. “Of course you are. But if we can’t touch you-”

“You can.” Alan straightened, trying to look as confident as Aladdin always thought he was. “I know what it looks like, but I won’t hurt you. The fire’s mine... um. How long have the lights been out?” _And where’s all the dark rukh go- uh-oh_.

He moved, swift as flame, snatching up Sarah in his free arm as pulsing dark power shattered tanks in a flood of fluids and snarling flesh.

_Set spell, don’t know what the trigger was, but it’s still driving them-!_

The impact was a surprise. It didn’t _hurt_ , but Sarah couldn’t quite stifle a yelp as stone and plaster shattered off the protective aura of flames around them.

_Oops._ Alan shook rock dust off as they soared into the next level. _Short ceilings_.

“Awesome!” Matt flung up his arms. “Do it again- _eek!_ ”

Big as a polar bear. Shaggy, between rhino-horns scattered across a thick hide like oversized porcupine quills. Four hot yellow eyes, and tusks that could have come off a cranky hippopotamus.

_I don’t have time for this!_ _“Amol Berka!”_

The flame wall curved and arced with his will, fires gnawing through stone and plaster in a rumbling roar.

Alan flicked his sword up as he dodged the mass of angry monster, will tugging flames just a bit hotter. “Going down!”

With a howl, half the floor collapsed.

* * *

Peering through the darkness as she ran down the stair railing, Morgan breathed in the faint scent of smoke like a benediction. “Alan’s loose.”

“Is he ever.” Aladdin’s grin was wide enough to glint ruby as dim red emergency lights flickered on, one over each stairwell landing she could see. “And someone’s tossing Lightning Magic, too. Let’s go find them-”

The wail cut through her ears like a knife, almost knocking her off the railing. Morgan kept her head enough to grab onto Aladdin as she wobbled, wrapping her other arm around her head to try and cut out some of that killing noise....

* * *

Phaenomena’s blade sank into the bespoke suit without at trace. No blood. No jar of steel on bone. Not so much as a flinch on Franklin Shays’ face. As if he wasn’t even there.

_Because he’s not_ , Callimachus realized, chilled as if he’d slipped into a lion pit. _He never was_.

“Ah. I see you finally noticed.” Shays’ image flickered a little, as Phaenomena flinched back - then flung herself at their all-too-present guard, teeth bared. “So few of our victims do.”

Callimachus dodged the vicious struggle and the smoking hole in the floor; snapping his fingers to loose magoi stored in a ring, hissing words that would bring clarity to his senses, no matter what spell had latched its claws in. Shays’ image wavered a little more, like a shaken camera-

“Holography,” Callimachus snarled. _Technology mixed with magic; just enough Life Magic to blur the edges in our minds, so we took the image as real. It’s a damned green-screen!_ “Why?”

There was a final thump, and the flutter in the rukh of an escaping soul. Callimachus raised his hands in first pose of a casting out of spirits, standing between Phaenomena’s bloody blade and the angry ghost that sought to lunge for her.

But the ghost seemed to shiver, and shattered into dark rukh, sweeping out and away.

“Don’t die here,” Callimachus ordered his companion, horror sweeping through his soul. “They’re consuming deaths for power. Do not die here!”

“You are quicker than most,” Franklin observed, steepling translucent hands before him to shadow a small, smug smile. “A pity we couldn’t have persuaded you to our side.” A casual shrug. “Really, you didn’t think we would let you this far into our secrets and let you go, do you? After that incident at Heunischenburg? You have a _reputation_ , Magister Callimachus.”

_The insane Life Mage? But... all I did was to mark the place as dangerous-_

Which would have been more than enough, Callimachus realized. The Toolmakers depended on an influx of unwitting victims. If there were any warning loose in Boston - any with magical sensitivity would flee, or band together to swarm the tower with lead and fire. Either way, the Shays’ lives would become less than comfortable.

“Locked!” Phaenomena swore from the door. Glanced up, and rubbed at her ears, as if a sound were shivering on the edge of hearing. “And there’s something-”

The image of Franklin laughed, and fingered his ID badge. “Of course there is. We’ve dealt with would-be rescuers before.” The smile widened. “Even Red Lions.”

* * *

Domingo put his shoulder under Malachy’s, helping the redhead keep moving when the man obviously wanted to keel over and stuff a whole mountain over his ears. He could almost, _almost_ hear the high-pitched sound tormenting the man, like the faint trill of singing mice from one of Matt’s nature shows.

_The man can hear in the ultrasonic range. That’s insane!_

Though what was really insane was the fact that they were heading _toward_ whatever had just exploded, in the dark, following Tiburon’s red-lit flashlight. Because _of course_ any youngsters related to the madmen he was with would be near something that went boom.

_And I have to go, I have to know, if Sarah and Matt are there I have to be there - if they aren’t we still have time to find them!_

And he was _not_ freaking out at the Latin script and ominous symbols above the more prosaic lab warnings on each of the doors they passed as they raced down the emergency-lit corridor. Even if he was pretty sure _Aqua_ was water, _Lux_ was light, and next up was _Fulgur,_ lightning-

Something gleamed above in the faint red light, and Domingo yanked them both backwards.

The slam of the steel wall down almost made his heart stop.

_Ja’far has Simon, Tiburon’s right by him - we’re okay. We’re all okay_.

And even with all his fear for his family, that was a rush of relief. Which... he wasn’t going to think about. They were here and they were help and he’d worry about it _later_.

Simon was already knocking knuckles against the slab of corrugated steel. “Hmm. I thought I’d killed the power to anything like this... oh. Huh.” He cocked his head, as if listening to someone unseen. “Baal says it has its own power source. Linked to something that reaches elsewhere through - oh, that’s interesting. I think it’s radio-triggered.”

_Radio_ \- “It’s a trap,” Domingo blurted out, as another steel wall slammed down behind them. “It’s - why - this makes no _sense_ -!”

“No, it does,” Ja’far said grimly. “Anyone with enough power to break in, is enough power to be worth harvesting.” Steel gleamed between his fingers, as he raised his arms. “If they have us pinned, the next step is disable-”

“Don’t.” Malachy shook his head like a lion shaking off water, and lifted himself off Domingo’s shoulder. Stalked to steel, and gripped it, fingers denting metal to catch red light like pools of blood.

Crouched, and _heaved_.

* * *

_The bastard locked in with us didn’t have keys, I didn’t bring explosives to let me blow out the ceiling, and the Magister doesn’t have enough power to cut through the lock_. Phaenomena took a deep breath, and crouched at the edge of the still-smoldering hole. _One way out_. “Give me a five count, then jump!”

Not waiting for his reply, she dropped.

_Oh, I didn’t think this place could get any spookier_.

She stepped carefully as she glanced around the dark room, trying to avoid shards of shattered glass and plastic. And hoped her shoes held up against whatever fluids were on the floor. If she had her orientation right, the Ryans’ kid’s tank should be that way-

Above her, something roared.

Phaenomena scrambled back as more of the ceiling gave way, parts of sublevel three shattering as they hit the fourth floor, spreading splinters of fiery debris. The crackle of red and yellow flames almost swamped the yellow-blue fire of an unsteady gas burner still burning on a lab bench, together casting just enough light to be sure Alan’s tank was empty.

_That’s not the only tank that’s empty!_

She ducked at the twitch of hairs on the back of her neck, calling to the spirits within her as she dodged the talons of a huge body in the dark. _Not human, don’t know what it is besides angry_ \- “Magister, below!”

: _We come!_ : Souye exulted, the ghostly warrior-maiden adding strength and bloodthirst to her blow. : _For war calls, and the ancient Enemy rises. Let us meet our foe!_ :

* * *

Give Drakon credit, Tiburon thought, he only wasted a few seconds staring before moving in to give Malachy a hand with the rest of them. Not that it was _their_ strength that lifted and crumpled steel like cardboard. But every bit helped.

One more pair of doors on either side of the corridor, and one massive pair just ahead. Where the explosions had to be....

_Explosions?_ Tiburon blinked, sniffing something that didn’t fit in the air, trying to sort out how he’d gotten into a corridor he’d never seen before in his life. _What explosions... wait, something’s wrong, why is everything so foggy, where am I-?_

Violet and amber _flared_ around them, burning against something coiling out of the air itself. “Gas!” Ja’far snarled, pencil-wand in hand as he went back to back with Simon. “Enspelled!”

Fighting for _where_ and _when_ , Tiburon’s blood ran cold. Enchanted or not, gassing people was something you didn’t do if you wanted victims alive. Everybody’s drug tolerances were different, everyone’s body weight was different-

_And Drakon told us about the firehouse, they just don’t care about bystanders - and we’ve shown we may be too much trouble to take alive_....

“No you don’t,” Simon growled. “We’ve fought for who we are. Bled for it. Died for it. You will take _nothing_ from us!”

Lightning blazed about them all, sparks crackling through gas and spell to sting their skin. Tiburon shook his head, suddenly awake-

Thunder roared.

Simon fell.

* * *

: _They will not have you!_ :

Baal’s voice rang like thunder in his ears, as Simon whirled in a flurry of darkness. This... it wasn’t the Toolmakers’ corridor. Though it had even more of that eerie sense of _age_ , of times past and gone....

“They’re all in danger out there. And you don’t know enough to save them.”

Simon twisted about, hairs prickling on the back of his neck at that voice. It sounded so oddly familiar-

Robes of white and violet, edged with figured gold. Rings and necklaces glittering, as Sindria’s king in all his glory folded his arms with a knowing smirk.

“I have to hand it to Ja’far,” Sinbad reflected. “For a man who never was comfortable about spells in that life, he’s done an admirable job of learning how to protect what he cares about. But Aladdin has a habit of overdoing things - happens, when you’ve got all a magi’s power to draw on. Throw in malevolent mind-tampering magic and a cranky Djinn trying to counter it on top of that....” A fluid shrug. “Here we are.”

_Here we are_ , Simon reflected, _and I know that smirk. That’s “I’ve got the upper hand and I plan to be generous when I use it-”_

_No_.

Simon dove straight in, using every nasty trick he’d picked up from Malachy and Tiburon and Ja’far in a violent mood. Because he was up against a lethal warrior, a magoi-manipulator, one of the strongest kings the ancient world had ever seen-

_And that can’t matter, I won’t let it matter, I won’t lose here!_

Hits connected; Simon saw stars, and tasted blood. But he had his opponent’s arm twisted up and around; and if he couldn’t force the fight any farther at least he had Sinbad stalemated-

_I can’t win with force. And I don’t want to_.

“You,” Simon gritted out. “You made Ja’far _sad_.”

Muscles went slack against his grip. Simon tensed, ready for ambush.

“Of all the arguments you could have made,” Sinbad murmured, “you had to find that one.”

_What? What is he trying to-?_

“Don’t ask,” Sindria’s king said quietly. “Don’t argue. Just _look_. And remember. He deserves it.”

_Look at_ -

Bloody footprints in the snow. A child’s soul, split in half, as Ja’far tried to reconcile the desire of every human to _go home_ with the horrible knowledge that he’d been made to kill his own family....

Simon wiped away tears, all too aware Sinbad could have moved in that moment of pure anguish. And hadn’t.

“You’re right,” Sinbad said quietly. “I held his soul in my hands, and saved it... and then I dragged him into deeds as dark as anything the Sham Lash ever ordered. I failed him.” His voice sank, almost inaudible. “I failed all of them.”

“You tried.” Simon felt that ghostly hug, as a much younger Sinbad gathered Ja’far’s warring soul to him and gave it a place to rest. “You loved him. It matters.”

“I pray it does.” Sinbad took a breath, and let it sigh out, in this place-that-wasn’t. “If you need me - if you ever, truly need me - I’m here. Until then....” Amber eyes danced. “You beat Sindria’s own king, and fairly. I’d be a poor loser if I didn’t give you your prize.”

Simon shook his head. “I didn’t ask for-”

“I know.” Sinbad held out a hand, open and offering. “But I think you might need this. I won it from David when he wasn’t looking... and I suspect it’s one of the things Solomon never got the chance to give his own son.” A wry, so-familiar smile. “What’s that story you love? _‘The hands of the king are the hands of a healer.’_ ”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, _Return of the King_ reference. Because The Lord of the Rings is one of the best stories, ever, of all time.


	22. King With No Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which modern physics is... encouraged to cooperate. 
> 
> Fire pretty!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of the neat things about Magi is that magic is _supposed_ to be based on natural forces. Just, natural forces leveraged with a lot more energy than would be normally present. So I did some careful checking on exactly what does happen in here. Long story short? What happens in here would, as far as I can tell, be actually possible - if you could apply a lot of energy and _contain_ it to a relatively small area. 
> 
> Djinn. Hellacious amount of energy, check....

_We don’t have to be quiet anymore_ , Aladdin thought, perched with Morgan on his unfurled turban. Swirled his wand once, twice, gathering purple-black flickers-

Carpet-sized pieces of the next two floors dissolved into sand and dust, streaming out and away.

_A little Gravity Magic goes a long way- whoa!_

Fire was roaring, and something else was roaring - no, more than one something else, he’d never heard roars quite like that before-

Morgan leapt down into the fray, following that flicker of familiar flames.

_Dungeon monsters?_ Aladdin thought, eyes wide as Morgan crunched through the chitinous carapace of something that looked like a furry scorpion with tooth-edged claws. _No, they don’t feel right, they’re laced with dark rukh, and something else_....

Not that he really cared. He was a magi, he could deal with it.

And hovering in the center of the room, keeping two strangers safe in his arm as he yanked flames into walls to bat away monsters like swatted moths, was the brightest smile in the world. “Took you long enough!”

_I knew you’d come_ , the rukh sang, bright and heart-fierce as dawn. _I always knew_.

* * *

Domingo wasn’t quite sure how they broke through the last set of doors. There might have been lightning, as he helped Malachy drag a semi-conscious actor with a sparking cutlass out of the drugged mists. He _did not want to know_.

The doors broke open onto hell. And hell had gleaming claws.

_Not human what_ is _that don’t care-!_

He was shooting around the martial artist and the swordsman, aiming for chameleon-quick eyes as an unholy combination of tiger and lizard tried to savage them all. Insane, how could he think he could aim and _not_ hit them, everyone was moving so fast-

_“Daddy!”_

Fire swatted the next beast coming at him before he could shoot it properly. Domingo dodged around yet another creature that looked like a jackal dressed in snakeskin-

_No floor!_

Ja’far’s hand caught his shoulder, shoving him hard sideways. Domingo used the push and tumbled, barely avoiding the hole, as the dagger-wielder shocked the snake-jackal so bones glowed through scaled skin.

And came face to face with... something that didn’t _have_ a face, just waving tendrils like a water-hydra, squirming across seared stone fast as a whipsnake.

_Where the hell do I shoot_ that?

Dainty feet landed in the midst of the tendril-end, squishing the monster’s not-a-head like mint jelly. The young redhead with Malachy’s fierce eyes skidded out of the slime, then grabbed him and jumped. “This way!”

_“This way,” is a flying carpet_ , Domingo realized, landing on fluttering white cloth.

... _I think I’m in shock_.

“Domingo!” Sarah’s hand brushed his shoulder, reassuring them both; her other hand kept a fierce grip on Matt as their son alternated between staring in awe and hiding from the monsters behind-

_His hair really is blue_.

Aladdin Cavins’ braid flew in a hot wind like a lost piece of sky, as he stood on fluttering cloth and raised a twisted wooden wand glowing red-gold, energy swirling and feeding toward....

Domingo blinked. Gold ornaments. Ancient kilts of white and crimson. A magma-black sword, and flowing hair of Pele’s own volcanic gold limned in flames.

_Somehow, I know this is all Simon’s fault_.

* * *

_Oh, I never thought I’d fight like this again in my life!_

Tiburon didn’t have the breath to laugh as he danced with steel through the monsters. But he wanted to. Burning muscles, acid scratches, the cold knowledge that if he failed to anticipate claw or fang he’d be bleeding out on the floor-

And none of it mattered, next to that incandescent joy.

_This is who I am. This is what I was meant to do._

_I’m fighting alongside the people I love. There’s nothing closer to Heaven on this earth._

Simon was still groggy, but fighting his way back towards awake, back to back with Ja’far in glowing arcs of lightning. Drakon was safe with what had to be Sahar’s reincarnation, their son grabbing onto them both with all the relief a monster-hunted youngster could bear. Malachy had just touched down by Morgan, the pair of them flashing white-fire grins at each other as they wreaked unholy havoc on any magic-twisted beast dumb enough to come at them. Wreathed in flames, Alan looked like he could use a year’s nap, but he was hovering over one of the larger holes, ready to incinerate anything that decided to charge rather than run-

Firelight flickered off pale fingers at the edge of a hole, and Tiburon ducked under the next swing of bearlike arms. “Aladdin! Someone’s down there!”

The magi blinked, and looked-

Took a deep breath, and nodded.

* * *

_We’re not going to make it_ , Callimachus thought grimly, doing his best to scramble up to the next level even as poisoned blood ran down his arm.

He’d never been a good fighter, despite Phaenomena’s best efforts to get him to learn less magical ways to take care of himself. And while she had pounded enough hand-to-hand into him that he could deal with most human fools-

Krav Maga didn’t work that well on creatures that didn’t have human frailties, and that was all there was to it.

His companion was doing her best to dissuade the seared, vengeful creatures swarming them. And that best was far better than he could have dreamed, as a swarm of silvery rukh poured in to aid them both.

_Live_ , the rukh was keening at them, as Callimachus’ feet tried to get any better purchase on the pile of debris to push himself upward. _Break the pattern, break the darkness-!_

Oh, he’d _break_ the Shays, if he could. Shatter every foul thing they’d built into a million pieces, and salt and burn the ashes. Not for any heroic reasons. Because such a dark swamp of rukh could reach out to swallow lives, swallow whole cities, and he was not going to see one more magician eaten alive for mere _money_.

_I won’t be that fortunate_.

He had just enough magoi left to identify the venom coursing through his veins. Make that _venoms_ , a horrid hybrid of a dozen different deadly beasts, laced with the violet acid-fire of radioactivity. If he had it in a lab, he might admire it; in tiny doses, he could see how it might be used to heal organs and nerves, or savage cancer into submission, in ways no modern medicine could.

In the dose he’d taken, Callimachus could already feel his heart faltering.

_But if I can get out, I can pull her up... Phaenomena might still have a chance_....

Smaller fingers closed on his.

Vision blurring, Callimachus looked up into fire-lit blue.

“Trust me,” Aladdin said firmly.

Violet-black magic wrapped around him with the magi’s grip, and the world’s weight fell away.

* * *

_Firelight’s good, very effective_ , Simon thought, dodging one of the many, many holes in the stony floor. _But we’ll need at least one more light so watchers can see people’s faces. I hate Hollywood’s trend toward Darker and Edgier- wait. This is real?_

: _Don’t panic_.:

_A little hard not to!_ Simon shot back, cutlass braced against a scorpion claw before he twisted sideways and under the stinger-strike. He’d fought the monsters in Baal’s dungeon, but he’d known the Djinn didn’t want him dead. These twisted monstrosities lived and breathed pain, and there was no way he was fast enough, skilled enough-

: _You are_.:

Ja’far’s Vessel shocked the not-scorpion into a smoldering heap, his own lightning strike took out something with membraned wings before it could stoop, and....

Quiet, except for harsh breathing, and the crackle of flames.

“I think we got them,” Tiburon managed, still breathing hard. “Malachy?”

Red hair tilted. “Nothing moving but us.” The Fanalis snorted, as if to clear out the stench of the last thing he’d punched, and grabbed Morgan up in a fierce hug. “Next time, call _before_ the airport.”

“Uncle.” She hugged him back. “We found Maria. She’s outside.”

“Ja’far, I need help!” Aladdin had an all too familiar alchemist laid out on floating white cloth, Phaenomena bloody and exhausted at his side. “He’s been poisoned. It’s bad.”

“ _Bad_ is an understatement.” Ja’far scrambled up onto the carpet to run hands and wand over the wound. “Venom and radioactivity... apply the antivenom spell, I’ll layer on the pattern so you can power the anti-radiation one.” He took a breath. “We’re all going to want that one. And a lot of iodized salt. The radiation level in here won’t kill anyone, but it’s not healthy.”

Radiation. Ah. Yes, that did take precedence over chewing out their strays for being so uncivilized as to go after evil minions without inviting their teachers along for the fun. “Is it safe to move him?” Simon asked swiftly.

“Move me... anyway....” Callimachus managed. “I... refuse... to die in a nest of dark rukh, and be drowned in it to fuel monstrosities!”

Phaenomena caught his hand. “You’re not dying here!”

“You,” Callimachus bit out, “must not die here. Give them the archive keys... they have to know what they’re dealing with....”

“Magister!”

Ja’far flattened a hand on the man’s forehead. “Stay quiet. We’ll buy you time.”

If Simon knew Ja’far, he’d do a lot better than that. _But he’s got to stay still long enough for any healing to work_ , Simon reflected. _And given the last time we met we were all trying to kill each other - better if our alchemist stays down_. “Do I want to know why you two are here?”

“We screwed up,” Phaenomena said flatly, tearing her eyes away from floating fire. “Most people who come near the Toolmakers must not know enough about Life Magic to figure out what this lab _is_. What it means. The Magister _does_. They want him dead.” She glared at Simon. “He wants you to _have his archive_. So you know what kind of hell they’re brewing here. I call truce.”

“Hell pretty much fits it,” Alan said blearily, descending enough to lean on Morgan’s shoulder. Gold gleamed from neck and ears and arms, almost blending with the river of fiery gold hair; Simon took mental design notes as he came down from the adrenaline rush, because whatever Alan might think about Equip, an actor knew exotically impressive when it hit him in the heart. “The rukh in here-”

“I know,” Simon nodded. And if his hands were trembling a little at the thought, he doubted anyone would mind. “It - I saw it too.”

That snapped Alan all the way awake. “Are you okay?”

“We hung onto him,” Malachy said plainly. “Drakon helped.”

“My name isn’t... fine, whatever,” the agent sighed. “At least it’s not Dom....” He trailed off, as even Aladdin lifted his attention away from spellcasting to stare at him. “What?”

Morgan was blinking. Alan was making a few odd noises Simon identified as strangled laughter. Aladdin didn’t even bother hiding a giggle, before he shook his head at Simon. “You found him!”

“At least it wasn’t at spearpoint this time-” Simon cut himself off, feeling the world slide sideways a bit.

_Drakon. Partevian general with an impossible name. Enemy turned reluctant ally. Back to back against the monsters with a gleaming sword and shield - a very useful shield, great for surfing waterspouts in Baal’s dungeon_....

He remembered tasting his own blood, shed by soldiers in a backwater Partevian town. Remembered his cheeky grin at Yunan, before he dove through Baal’s portal. Dragons, eluding death, gripping a young noble’s swordblade with a bloody hand because he refused to lose-!

: _Hold onto me, my king._ : Baal brushed sparks through his mind like a prickle of cat’s fur, searching for harm. : _All will be well. I did not expect this... but between Ja’far’s efforts, and my own... and yours... the darker times are still locked away_.:

“Spearpoint?” Tiburon glanced between them, as if he couldn’t decide which king to shake first. “Are you okay, Simon?”

“I’m... not completely sure,” Simon admitted. Partevia. Imuchak. Reim. He could feel them, there for the reaching-out of his hand.

_We’re at ground zero of a radioactive monster-making lab. This is no time to be wandering through old memories_.

“Ja’far and Aladdin had better look me over,” Simon said soberly. “ _After_ we’re out of here.”

“No argument there,” the swordsman muttered. “Alan?”

“Took a sec for Amon to match up _radiation_ with _starfire_ , but he says there’s plenty of it in volcanoes. I’m fine.” Alan’s smile was game, if tired. “Not that I was planning on dropping this until someone had a blanket to spare.”

“A blanket?” Tiburon stepped closer to the flames, curious.

Sarah cleared her throat. “He, ah, was hypothermic down there - they had him in a water tank, I had to....”

Alan groaned, and hung his head, even the flames blushing. “There is a _tiny_ chance that after today I might have one _little_ shred of dignity left. I’d kind of like to keep it.”

There might have been a small _eep_ sound from Morgan. Simon would never have been so poor a gentleman as to draw attention to it.

_Every girl deserves some eyecandy in her life_ , Simon decided. “True dignity comes from within,” he said grandly. “I admit, clothes help.”

“You say that like you have dignity,” Ja’far snorted.

Well, point. “True dignity comes from not caring about it?” Simon tried.

“One word,” Ja’far declared. “ _Leaves_.”

Erk. “Not in front of a child, Ja’far!”

Ja’far choked on a laugh. “Oh, _now_ you mind. You do remember that story about Artemyra, a certain pleasure quarter, and getting pitched naked into a canyon?”

He remembered more than just the story now, Simon realized, wincing at images of a month spent living off snakes and wearing nothing but handy greenery. Oh, he was never going to live this down. “You were older!”

“Not by that much-” Ja’far tensed, as both Malachy and Morgan stiffened. “What?”

“Scents changed,” Malachy said darkly, as everyone gathered together around the carpet with something pointy facing out.

“Not decay,” Morgan added, staring at the bodies. “Something... different.”

“Oh,” Matt said faintly, as flesh and bone seemed to quiver, and sink. “Ew.”

“Off the floor, off the floor good,” Tiburon urged, as everyone scrambled away from leaking fluids. “Phaenomena, sit your alchemist up, we need room for everyone....”

Simon didn’t need to think twice before leaping up onto floating cloth with the rest of them. He _had_ read the Horror Movie Survival list.

_And anything brewed up in a lab with this much dark rukh could poison everything it touches. Even without radioactivity_.

“You know,” Simon observed, gripping Drakon’s hand to steady himself as everyone tried to fit in without falling off, “this reminds me of that bit in Lavaconda where the man-eating lava-snakes turn out to be actually protecting Earth from the invading alien slime-”

Blue-green and glowing violet, pools of fetid protoplasm sent out threads and pseudopods. Where two threads met, the colors blended into something even more neon and evil, smaller masses lurching and squirming to meet the larger.

Tiburon raised his sword, completely deadpan. “You just had to give it ideas, didn’t you.”

* * *

Standing between two exhausted children and her nightmares, Maria trembled.

_I tried_ , she thought, quivering in place as she made herself stand, even if she was backed up almost against the tumbled stones of the wall marking the boundary between tower meadow and the woods. Guns were bad, guns were horrible, but it was the dark life-flutters around suited men that made her want to curl up and scream until everything went black. _I tried! We almost got away, we_....

Only it wasn’t _we_ anymore. It was just her. The swirls of light and dark wings from the tower meant Alan and the others were still alive, still fighting - but they weren’t _here_.

_I could - I could run. They might not catch me. I can’t save them, I should run!_

Alan wouldn’t run.

_Oh, he’d say I was being so stupid_.... “G-go away!” Maria grabbed for a stray rock, feeling the lichen on one side soften the hard edge of granite against her fingers. “Leave us alone. Go _away!_ ”

“Why, it’s Mariñelarena’s daughter.” The blond man lounging behind the guns raised an unimpressed brow. “You’d think anyone who could flee us once would have the sense not to lure others into our grasp. Then again - blood will tell, won’t it?” He _tch_ ed. “You should have seen your friend’s face when he learned the truth about your father... and his mother.”

_Alan knows_.

_Alan_ knows.

It was horror, it was drowning her, she wanted to die right now-

Fire beat against her heart. _Little sister_ , the rukh whispered.

Tears streaming, Maria raised her head. “You are the one whose blood tells. _Monster_.”

_You tell him, sis_. A ghostly whisper, like fingers ruffling her hair. _Can’t_ do _much, not here - but I can give you one clear shot_....

Gunmen blinked, spreading out with a wave of the monster-maker’s hand. Gray eyes narrowed. “Untrained fool... go ahead! Throw your power at us, what little you have. We’ll just pick up what’s left of you when the drain is too much.” His voice sank, to a venomous certainty. “Your ghost can’t save you this time.”

“Then why not try out the living?” A warm hand rested on her shoulder. “Don’t worry. It’s going to be alright.”

Maria froze. She’d never heard an accent like that, except from-

The hand on her shoulder was far too grownup to be Aladdin’s.

Maria glanced from pale skin up to even paler silver-blond hair, blue eyes smiling at her from under a feathered green hat that looked like Robin Hood had married a nice wood-witch instead of Maid Marian. All in green, in the oddest old clothes; but no bow in his hand, just a stroppy limb like a storybook fishing pole.

All around him, the rukh was singing.

“You must be Maria.” He winked, and part of the rukh flickered like an echo of fire. “I can see why... Alan... was worried. So long, and he’s still not sure of himself. But you all came this far. Don’t lose hope now.”

The monster-magician was shaking his head in disbelief. “Whoever - _whatever_ you are, step away from the brats.”

“Oh yes, that would be wise,” Yunan reflected. “I’ve really never been a good fighter! That was more Sinbad’s calling. Or Alibaba’s. Not that either of them really loved to fight. But sometimes a king has to, to set the world right.” Yunan’s eyes found Shays’, and hardened. “No, I’m no good at fighting. But I think, for these little ones... I can stand in your way.”

“Your funeral.”

Maria stared down the muzzle of a silenced gun, and had to close her eyes. _I’m not brave. I don’t want to die-!_

The shot thumped, like muffled thunder.

_I’m... still alive?_

“Open your eyes,” Yunan murmured, warm hands over hers. The flutters singing over them both; _magi, magician, live!_

Maria blinked. And stared at the impossible.

Silvery light glimmered in a sphere around them all, flattened lead falling away to the torn ground.

“I’m no fighter,” Yunan said again. “But helping a young magician who doesn’t want to die hold her Borg fast... yes. I think I can do that.” He cocked his head, listening to the singing. “My, my. What have you loosed down there? It’s vicious. And _hungry_.”

“It’s ours,” the monster-maker said flatly, even as he backed off a step. “And you’re standing right on top of it.”

“No, not quite _right_ on top,” Yunan mused. “This is going to be interesting.”

* * *

_Slime - burning with more than acid - don’t let it touch them!_

Fire whirled around them like a summer breeze, as Alan held the black sword high. Above him he could feel the stones of the ceiling start to crumble, which could possibly end up being a problem....

_A Borg can handle a few rocks. This slime? Not so much_.

Alan shuddered, seeing the flux of the rukh in the chimeric sludge as it tried to gnaw through his spinning shield. The fire in it wasn’t honest flame, heat and searing and done. It was _unseen_ fire, heart-of-the-world fire, starlight untamed by air and the world’s own magic-

_Radioactivity_.

: _So you call it_ ,: Amon noted. : _Do not fear. We are fire_.:

_I’m not afraid for me!_ Damn it, damn it all; he knew what Djinn were, the powers and formulas they had access to, the easy way they could shrug off harm from rukh akin to their own like a sprinkling of rain. And all of it just made his heart want to beat faster, drowning in terror. _I know what we’re up against, I know the magic we have - I just don’t know how to link them! I’m fifteen, we didn’t cover radioactive breakdowns in chemistry yet-!_

A scaly hand gripped his shoulder. _“Balaraq Berka!”_

Lightning shot through Alan’s fire-whirl with sky-blue sparks, power catching and turning aside the angry howl of tainted magoi.

“Electrostatic charge,” Simon said a little breathlessly, Baal’s Sword crackling with power. “Should deflect off alpha and beta particles, if I read that brochure on Chernobyl right, and I think you can handle anything else that tries to get through... did you know lightning strikes make gamma rays?”

_They do?_ “Ja’far?” Alan asked. Because honestly, who else would keep that in their heads-

_Oh_.

“Aladdin!” Alan called out. “We need to do something sneaky!”

* * *

Maria backed up against him, shivering. “Why do they wait?” she whispered.

_Because they’re thinking what you are; that we have to run out of power sometime_ , Yunan thought, wand at easy rest as he coaxed the rukh around them for just enough magoi to keep the Borg up; no more. _If they realize we aren’t, things could become... complicated_.

As if they weren’t messy enough already. He could feel the surge and growl of power, as two kings, their Djinn, and Aladdin himself worked feverishly at... _something_.

_What do these Toolmakers have down there, that can keep two Djinn Warriors busy?_

Whatever it was, he was beginning to second-guess the wisdom of being anywhere in the vicinity. Except-

_They caught Maria because of me. I can’t walk away from that_.

More importantly, if he tried, and Alan found out exactly who’d interfered with his message, there wouldn’t be a chasm on this planet deep enough to hide in. Alibaba had always been fiercely attached to those he considered friends and family, and Yunan doubted that bright soul had lost a flicker of his ferocity just because he’d moved on to another life.

_And... I need to know what Sinbad has lost - or found - by moving onto this life_ , Yunan thought reluctantly. _I chose him as a King Candidate; not once, but twice. What harm he does now is on my head_.

It’d seemed the best out of bad choices, at the time. Aladdin had needed all the help he could give; and Sinbad _would_ help him. Even if only for his own purposes.

_Baal thinks it wasn’t a bad choice_.

Had thought so thoroughly enough, indeed, to use a Djinn’s portal to carry his chosen King and household halfway across the continent, so they might have the chance to drag Aladdin and the others out of danger. For the magi left staring at the hole in the ground when Baal’s dungeon sank....

Well. He might have said some ancient bad words. And been very, very grateful he could teleport.

_To a nest of dark rukh, spawned by these souls and all their ancestors before them_. Yunan’s eyes narrowed. _I wonder. Some of Al-Thamen is gone; gone utterly, rukh seared and sealed away beyond human ken. But some only died. And if kings have been reborn_....

The Toolmaker was studying him with predatory intent. “Whatever you are, you won’t save them.”

Yunan smiled, gripping Maria’s shoulder when she shivered. “Ah, but that’s the wonder of kings. They’re usually quite good at saving themselves.”

* * *

_It’s not complicated_ , Aladdin told himself fiercely, trying to sort through the wisdom of ten modern minds, two Djinn, and the poking demands of all the rukh that had lived and died in this tower. _It’s star-stuff, and volcanoes, and lightning, it can’t be that complicated_....

_Only it really, really is_.

Radioactivity and particles and isotopes and how things decayed and how life was damaged and fell apart-

A crackle of ancient fire. : _Lean on us, young Magi_.:

Alan and Amon. Fire and faith, steady as lighthouses shining on the sea.

_This is where we are_ , Alan’s rukh, Alibaba’s rukh murmured, holding an image of invisible fire that tore at cells with unseen talons, and pointing toward the stable sense of iron, air, earth. _There is where we need to get to. We’ve got the ends; you just find the things between, and we’ll hold it!_

Find what came in-between. Aladdin winced, tempted to just scoop up all the slime and shove it back down the odd tunnel the Shays had left leading to a pool of water. That tank was meant to hold this deadly ichor, all he’d have to do was bury it....

_But it might get out. I won’t let that happen!_

Find the pieces. Mind by mind, he reached outward.

_These are the forms of invisible fire_ , Ja’far’s rukh murmured. _This is the damage it does; this is how you mend it, and bar it from tearing deep_....

_This is how it sparks in lightning_. Baal and Simon, sharp and uncompromising as the Djinn’s sword. _It’s part of nature. We live with it. All we need to do is lower the dose_.

_This is the threat of threats_. Drakon, not quite a dragon’s rumble. _The source of fear. But not all is alike. There are isotopes, other-forms_....

_This is what I learned in chemistry_. Sarah, fresh and hopeful as a sea breeze. _Harmful forms can change to safe ones, it just takes some time... and maybe a star_....

_This is the alchemist’s task_ , Callimachus snarled. _Matter is mutable; here is how the rukh can change it, if there’s only enough power!_

And the rukh here knew what this poison was, hissed about radon and cobalt and how the slime flexed back and forth between seeming one form and being another.

_Okay_ , Aladdin thought, sweating. _I know what it is. What can I do with it that makes it_ safe-

_This is the best steel on earth_. A rumble from the last place he expected; Fanalis and swordsman and Phaenomena’s eagerness to fight on the very edge. _The best of all, yet it’s not_ from _earth, but the stars themselves_....

Aladdin blinked. Turned that rukh-shaping around and around in his mind, testing it for flaws. _Amon?_

: _This, young Magi_ ,: the Djinn said gravely, taking the formula from him with the gentlest brush of flames. : _This, we can do_.:

* * *

_We get out of this, I am so cracking a Chemistry textbook_ , Alan thought, cupping fire around the huge glob of slime Aladdin’s magic had scooped out of every lab nook and cranny. _With focus on the radioactives._

Books later. Focus now. Because Amon might think they had this, but... well, he and Djinn magic usually only came to a meeting of minds after a lot of faceplanting the floor.

_Can’t afford that now. Try to relax. Feel the fire, let Amon set the pattern_....

He had just enough chemistry to have some idea what they were doing. First, fire to fry the ooze and kill it, while keeping the mass of it contained.

_Radioactive carbon - yeah, it’s probably got that. But it can’t be too much or it wouldn’t be alive to start. We can let that boil off. Ditto water_.

The trick was letting that boil off, without letting other not-smoke, not-water escape with it.

_Need to wrap an aura around it. Like flying_.

Which made sense, radioactive stuff had different masses than regular elements. If they could manipulate gravity to catch that difference....

He felt his strength draining, as Amon pulled more and more power to sieve and sort peril from harmless. It hurt, even with Aladdin feeding in more fire magoi so he could stay standing. But charred slime was less than half the size it had been, he could get his hands on the crackling mass now-

There was light.

: _As I said,_ : Amon murmured smugly. : _This, we can do._ :

Light and heat and the rush of power back into him, carbon-black melting and molding itself smaller, denser, shining. More than dragonfire, blazing and burning even as he focused heat in, _in_ , away from the fragile people behind him-

_So this is what the inside of a star feels like_.

* * *

Holding onto Matt in the sudden hot wind, Sarah shielded both their eyes against white light. “What is he _doing?_ ” Because he couldn’t be doing what the rukh was giggling of; light and melting and stardust-blending-

“At a guess? Cold fusion,” Simon grinned. “Well. Not so much the cold part.”

“But he’s... but that’s....” She traded a glance with her husband, who had one hand in the mix holding Callimachus down as venom made the alchemist seize. “Alan _picks locks_.” Which was impossible enough as it was, willing steel to move without hands touching it - but it was nothing like this!

“I plan to find out exactly what’s impossible for you people.” Domingo glared at Simon. “Later.”

Sword crackling a blaze of lighting around them all, Simon’s grin would have fit on any angel booted out of the bars of heaven. “Good! We could use the help.”

_He has claws_ , Sarah registered, eyes wide despite the light. _And scales_. Blue, she thought, sheathing his arms almost to the shoulder; though with that diamond-white light pouring over everything, it was hard to be sure....

“Aladdin.” Malachy’s level voice cut through the howling wind, as he pointed up.

The blue-haired teen glanced toward the ceiling cracking around the hole he’d cut, and gulped. “Okay, I don’t think there’s anyone up there....”

A wave of twisted wood, and violet-black power swept up and out.

* * *

It wasn’t a boom. Not even an ominous rumble. Just a _shush_ of sand-on-sand, like the biggest hourglass ever, as light blazed from the earth like white fire.

Maria squinted against the brightness, trying to hold onto that feeling of walling-out-harm as the monster-makers swore and scattered. The lifeflutters were laughing, and... even from the bright ones, it wasn’t all nice laughter.

_Today the monsters died_ , one winged spark sing-songed by her ear. _Today more monsters die!_

A ghostly hand batted that one away as she shuddered. _“Leave my sister out of this.”_

Maria glanced at that taller soul, almost invisible in the brightness. He’d sounded almost as much amused as angry....

_“Won’t be much longer,”_ he grinned. _“Just keep your head down. We’ve got this.”_

“Oh yes, you have,” Yunan murmured, staring as if the light stood no chance of blinding him. “My. What manner of beasts did they spawn, to draw out this much of Amon’s fury?”

Maria blinked watering eyes, seeing the evil ones scatter with guns drawn. “They will be shot!”

She wasn’t sure, but it looked like Yunan was smiling.

* * *

Aladdin’s carpet rose out of the gaping earth, and Yunan had to blink. Not at the light; he could persuade the rukh to dampen that to tolerable levels, even if those efforts only toned it down to high noon in the desert brightness. At the... assembled collection of intriguing people gathered under Sinbad’s shield of lightning - and wasn’t _that_ interesting, he’d never seen Baal act in a manner that focused on defense rather than outright attack-

Oh. And the Djinn Warrior aloft at the center of that blinding light, forcing death to fold in on itself and become _life_.

_What is he doing?_

Yunan listened to the rukh sing of stars and earth and determination, and breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully Baal was right, and Sinbad’s second life was much more sane than his first. But if not....

_Alibaba stopped him once. He can stop him again_.

* * *

Even peering through moon-white light, Domingo couldn’t miss the patrician face gaping at them. Franklin Shays. Old Boston money, rumored to have actively engaged his family in trade once more. Active contributor to political races, government oversight committees, the Policemen’s Benevolent Association, and any number of charities Biegen had tried to get his new partner involved in. Just to fit in better, Floyd had claimed. Charity was part of Boston life.

_Charities like the Star of the Sea_. Domingo held onto his wife and son, squinting to count how many guns were out there. _They were betrayed from the start... this is the man who meant to kill my family. Who’s murdered children!_ “Franklin Shays! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Given the _radioactive monsters_ ,” Sarah declared, unflinching, “I’d say they were playing both ends against the middle. Make Tools to detect radioactivity - and _leave it there to be detected_.”

...And this would be where Domingo usually reminded himself that shooting criminals was usually not the best solution. Really. Arresting them was what the FBI was there for. But if his office was compromised, and Ernesto was compromised, then-

“Haughn’s clear,” Sarah murmured in his ear. “Alan figured it out. We have someone who can do something.”

And for all the other horrors he’d seen today, the universe had blessed him when he’d married Sarah. He didn’t have to shoot anyone, he....

Domingo’s blood ran cold. Because Shays had apparently shaken off the shock of magic far faster than a dazed FBI agent ever could. And those were a lot of guns-

* * *

Molten near-metal cupped in one hand, Alan blinked at their enemies. A very slow blink. Everything was slow.

_Oh. I remember this_.

Bullets were fast; faster than even a Fanalis on the prowl. But he didn’t have to see the bullets. Just the shooters, beginning to twitch as they decided to pull the triggers.

_Amol Berka!_

Alan eyed five lumps of lead melting in the wall of flames, and grinned. “And teachers say watching anime’s a waste of time.”

* * *

_Good_ , Yunan decided. _They’ve seen enough_.

And Amon’s flames had their enemies’ eyes firmly riveted to molten lead. Meaning he no longer had to worry about his attention straying from Maria’s Borg.

Yunan raised his wand, with a soundless whisper.

_Sleep_.

* * *

Watching their enemies topple, Malachy growled under his breath, as the light dimmed a bit and Aladdin floated the carpet down to solid ground. “Damn it.”

“I know, I wanted to kill them too,” Tiburon sighed. “Simon, you need to tell Yunan that was just not fair. Not fair at all.”

“Latent Blood Knight tendencies,” Simon said wryly, finally letting the ghostly veil of lightning vanish. “Ja’far, I think you need a refresher on the term _latent_.”

_“Busy.”_

“Sorry.” Simon nodded as Alan touched down, snakes of red-gold fire still sweeping over the metallic lump in his hands. “I’m going to save the yelling, because first of all that’s something we should do when we’re not at imminent risk of roving reporters, and second of all I know I’ve done more reckless things. But the next time you have to dash off to save someone from horrible agonizing death, _call me first_.”

And now Malachy knew why Morgan wanted to keep this one, because Alan’s smile as he caught her held all the hope and wonder in the world.

...Not to mention the kid could take a full-out Fanalis glomp and not even _wince_. Nice.

“You... can’t let them live,” came the thready voice from under Ja’far’s hands. “You don’t know what’s down there. What they’ve done. What they will do, if you leave them unscathed.”

“What exactly is down there?” Yunan brought along two sleeping, wasted children with a floating wave of his wand, shepherding the dark-haired girl who had to be Maria over to them when she wanted to stand and stare at Alan. “It feels rather... hungry.”

“Feels?” Aladdin stiffened. “But - I thought we got - oh _no_.”

Malachy drew in the scent of slime, and whirled.

_It’s not from our escape hole, it’s from the bottom of the tower, where Morgan broke out-!_

Alan’s eyes narrowed. “Yunan!”

“Eep!” The green-clad magician caught the hunk of molten metal in light-clad hands, juggled it like he might a hot potato. “This isn’t exactly safe yet!”

“Says the guy who does atomic reconstruction _all the time_.” Flames blazed in an arc behind Alan, and he leapt into the air. “I am so. So. _Done_ with these bastards.”

* * *

_Do we have enough power for this?_

: _More than enough, my king_.: Amon’s laugh held bright fury, sharp as starlight. : _More than enough._ :

Alan smiled, that same fury burning through his veins. Because this... this was as dark and twisted an anomaly in the rukh as ever Balbadd had been under the Empire, and he heard the souls of those lost and destroyed crying out for an ending.

_No one human left alive in there_ , he realized, sweeping Amon’s sense of fire rukh through the tower for any last flames of life. _Just those_... things.

: _Good_.:

Yeah. Because Callimachus might be a cruel bastard of an alchemist, but he was _right_. They couldn’t just leave these Life-warping crazies asleep and walk away.

_But there’s more than one way to stop them_.

Alan raised the black sword high, feeling the seal of the rukh blaze into existence about them. _“Spirit of Politeness and Austerity, thou who gives power to kings, bring forth the great hellfire that judges the earth!”_

* * *

Small hands, shaking Callimachus in death’s grip. “Wake up. Wake _up_ ,” Aladdin insisted. “You need to see this.”

_So tired_. But he tried to blink anyway, because Phaenomena had sucked in a breath beside him, and his compatriot hadn’t even done that for a dragon-

_Oh_.

The Fire Prince stood in the sky, an eight-pointed star of magic blazing gold around him. Magma-black and red flames strode through the seal in the shape of a titan of fire, lava-sword blazing as the Fire Prince struck _down_ -

The Shay’s tower... _shattered_.

As if from a great distance, Callimachus saw the cloud of stone _twist_ , burning into the ground like a great pyroclastic drill of flames. More fire erupted from the caverns where labs had been, consuming slime and equipment and who knew what horrors in a fountain of flying sparks.

Not one landed on them. Not one.

_This_ , Callimachus thought, as the dark closed in again. _This is what magic should be_.

It was enough.

* * *

_I want that_ , Simon thought, heart in his throat as the heat of molten stone beat at them like burning feathers. _Not for the destruction. For that... brightness_....

: _Sometimes vengeance is necessary to balance the soul’s scales_ ,: Baal said softly. : _Look_.:

He could see the ghosts, gathering about the heat-rippling chasm in the earth in translucent wonder. Children, men and women; clothes of yesterday, and centuries past, and faded rags. All staring at what had been a mire of grief and pain, before the bravest broke away and grabbed more timid souls, swirling them into a dance of weeping joy as they shattered back into silvery rukh.

_I want that_ , Simon thought once more, not ashamed to feel tears trickling down his cheeks. _I want to bring light back to dark places_.

: _We will, my king_ ,: Baal’s presence rubbed comfort into his aching soul, like the knuckles of a scaled hand. : _We will bring our people home; all of them. And then we’ll go find some hurricanes to play in_.:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Witch Hunter Robin has an awesome scene where the title character melts bullets with a pyrokinetic glare. Full Metal Alchemist - well, Roy Mustang and flames, FTW. So... yeah. Anime is great inspiration for literal Fire Power. :)


	23. A Cat may look at a King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is clean-up, and fluff. And presents, and letters home.

Eyeing the darkening horizon where that sudden light had blazed, Richard couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that somehow, some way, Alan was in the middle of that mess.

“Thank you, Agent Haughn,” Edna said graciously into her own cell phone, as she and Sam casually organized a mini-evacuation with a determination that reminded Richard of Moses parting the Red Sea. “No, actually, I’m not that surprised. Remind me to tell you the story of how my first date with Richard went. It was interesting.”

Recalling an interrupted purse-snatching, an idiot with a tire iron, and the confusion as he used his date’s hairspray as an improvised robber-deterrent, Richard blushed.

“Good,” Edna went on, fierce. “Get the evidence to _nail them to the wall_. I’m sure we’ll be able to help- oh? Just a moment.” She gave Richard a warm glance. “Agent Haughn would like to know if we’d be willing to kidnap a certain agent and his family.” She paused. “Theoretically, of course.”

“Of course,” Richard agreed, bemused. “The more the merrier.” He looked across the airport lounge where Samuel was surrounded by a small swarm of dark-eyed kids he’d organized into demolishing hamburgers and a fruit bowl. Sam himself was working phone and laptop, keeping tabs on the mini-army Edna had set moving to get Maria’s kids here, grab any of what few clothes and personal items they wouldn’t leave without, and clear out Anne’s condo properly this time.

Edna had insisted on going with him for that, bless her. His wife had a soul of steel; this was going to be painful to Alan, he knew it, but everything Special Agent in Charge Haughn had uncovered so far about the Shays was more proof Alan _could not be here_ while the investigation went forward. They owned too many people, inside the government and out.

_But not Haughn_ , Richard thought gratefully, still unsettled by both what Haughn had honestly admitted he’d known had been going on, yet couldn’t stop, and what the agent had managed to finally get proof of in the wake of a wrecked warehouse, an attacked firehouse, a now-exposed child slave camp Haughn had been led to by one of Alan’s street contacts, and various other scenes of destruction. That didn’t even get into the shiver in his soul Richard had felt, searching through what had been left of his son’s life here. Too many memories with Anne’s face….

Though he’d deliberately sought out some of those haunting images. He’d had to take so little the last time, to get Alan away and safe. Now… there were framed photos wrapped and tucked into his briefcase, where sunlight or streetlights showed Anne and a growing gold-eyed boy making trees and walls and erratic boulders their own personal playgrounds. One in particular had been in Alan’s room, glass marred with fingerprints; a younger Anne, face flushed and eyes dancing from the effort as she balanced at the top of a concrete wall, the wide golden eyes of a baby peering over her shoulder from a sling.

All of those photos would find their way to Alan’s new room, as soon as they were home and safe. He owed his son that. Even if seeing Anne’s smile hurt.

And in a way, it had hurt even more to watch Edna stare at those moments of life and danger, and shake her head with a rueful smile. “That explains so _much_ about the boy….”

Then she’d gripped his shoulder and told him it was alright to cry, so long as they got this _done_. And what they’d found because she had-

Richard shook off that odd thrill of Alan’s crazy secret compartments, and focused on now. “Has he found that family? Theoretically or not-”

His cell beeped.

_Hey! Phone still works. Awesome!_

_Simon_ , Richard sighed, and put in his own call. “Should I ask why you’re surprised the phone still works?”

“Richard!” Simon sounded sincerely glad to hear from him. And more than a little tired. “Well, it’s a long story… the important thing is, we found the kids. They’re okay.”

Richard braced a hand on the back of a lounge chair. Because Alan was alive. Alan was alive, those brave youngsters were alive, that was what mattered-

_And I am going to ground him until he’s twenty, for the love of god-!_

“Richard, just breathe,” Simon said calmly. “We’re okay. It was a little dicey, we ended up picking up some unusual help – you know Agent Dominguez, yes? He’s okay, too. And Sarah, and Matt. We’re all fine. We just need to – er – work out a few logistics….”

“Logistics nothing.” Malachy’s voice, flat and final. “Drakon, forget the car. We need to go.”

“But,” Dominguez tried to protest.

“The cops can haul your ex-partner in later,” Tiburon’s voice cut across them all. “We all did a great and wonderful thing, and if there were any justice in the world we’d spend the next week on the beach with hot lovelies in designer swimsuits and enough cold drinks to float on. Given there is no justice, we need to exfil out of here before someone sends the Air Force to investigate the _massive explosion and heat pulse_.”

“Explosion?” Richard said warily.

“Air Force?” A stranger’s voice put in, in a very odd accent.

“Oops?” Simon sounded too gleeful to be innocent.

“Ah.” The stranger’s voice went very dry. “Explain the Air Force later. When… Simon… says oops…. Yes, by all means, leave the traitor for someone else to deal with.”

_Traitor?_ Richard wondered. But Biegen’s fate wasn’t really something he cared about right now. “I’d like to talk to Alan.”

“Give us a minute to get everyone settled….”

Richard waited impatiently to the sounds of a van-sized group of people pulling together and scrambling on top of each other. No sound from the engine, odd; he did hear air rushing past, so they had to be moving-

“Dad?” A quick breath. “I mean, Mr. Silversmith, we’re okay-”

“Dad is fine,” Richard said firmly, clinging to that sound of exhausted breathing. _Alive. In one piece. Alive_. “Dad is just fine.”

* * *

“We can’t stop what we’re doing now,” Sister Thomasina said sharply. “Think of the children!”

“I am thinking of the children!”

Mrs. Silversmith’s voice, and that roused Alan out of his exhausted doze on Morgan and Aladdin faster than a gunshot. Airport lounge, chairs pushed together so they didn’t need to lose contact, Maria snuggled up with a bunch of the _ak-al’ab_ nearby, who were trying to look small and quiet and asleep so the adults would never see the ambush coming. What was his dad’s wife doing with Sister Thomasina-

“ _My_ children,” Edna went on, voice as politely cutting as Alan had ever heard it. “Who are now targets, thanks to your church and its abominable disregard for law and common decency, you smug, hypocritical, overgrown _penguin!_ ”

Eep.

But Sam’s hand was on Alan’s shoulder, one finger pressed to his lips in the universal plea for silence. _Mom’s being awesome!_ he mouthed.

Oh yeah? This he had to see.

“Your children?” The sister was standing rock-solid, arms folded in her habit, scowling as she looked over street rats and – Alan would be the first to admit – a pile of people who looked like they’d spilled out of an Arabian Nights costume party. Which he was totally blaming Yunan for, because it was the magi’s fault, completely. Sure, Ja’far had been the one muttering about radioactivity and needing to change their clothes, but damn it, Yunan did atomic reconstruction like other magicians did little fire spells. He could have just swept anything radioactive off what they were wearing.

_But no. A king – and his Household – has to look impressive_. Alan smiled ruefully. _Poor Drakon_.

“Since when have you cared anything about the poor and the downtrodden, Edna Silversmith?” Sister Thomasina went on. “Much less anything to do with Anne Ryans’ son-”

“That was my mistake,” Edna said, just as rock-solid and immovable, as Richard moved to stand beside her like a polite lawyerly siege engine. “I let what I felt about one woman, and my own mistakes, color what I did to an innocent boy. I was wrong. But you….” Edna’s eyes narrowed. “You let him believe he had to _protect_ you, and your law-breaking, when it could have cost him his life!”

Sister Thomasina was shaking her head, mild reproof in every line of her face. “You can’t say-”

“Yes, I can.” Edna never raised her voice, but it cut like a razor. “I know my husband. So I _know_ his son. Alan wouldn’t have gambled other lives to save someone he was responsible for, unless he had no other choice.” A manicured finger stabbed the nun’s direction, like a shot to the heart. “You let a teenager believe he was the only hope a little girl had. I hold you just as responsible as anyone for this – this barely averted atrocity!”

Alan blinked. Eyed Sam, who was grinning behind his hand. Glanced over at his teachers and their assorted allies; Ja’far was still poking an out-cold Callimachus once in a while, but aside from that even Simon seemed to be content to sit back and watch the show.

Morgan’s hand touched his shoulder, kitten-paw light. Alan let himself relax. It was going to be okay. Somehow.

“Of course I can’t tell you and your conscience what to do,” Edna went on dryly. “I can only point out that SAC Haughn will be investigating the Shays’ organizations – legitimate and otherwise – very closely. Very, _very_ closely. And given the Star of the Sea charity is known to have accepted their donations in the past, and some children served by that charity have now turned up in a building the Shays organized for slave labor….” She trailed off, eyes icy.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t tell Mrs. Silversmith what she wouldn’t dare, Sister,” Alan stuck in. Because damn, he could still feel the tears drying on his cheeks from where he’d broken down crying on the carpet, knowing they were all alive. And damn, he’d seen his own mother take people apart like that when she had to, and he wanted to applaud. “You didn’t see what the Shays did to people. What they’ll keep doing, if people don’t stop them. You’re bringing kids here to save them? They’re helping you bring kids here _so they can kill them_.”

Both women were looking at him now. Alan did his best not to shrink back against Morgan and Sam, because this was his responsibility and nothing here was actually going to eat him. Even if they were kind of scary.

Morgan sniffed the air, eyes watchful; a careful non-reaction that had Alan glance toward the lounge door for her. Everyone knew he’d be jumpy back here in Boston.

So the tired gray-haired guy in an FBI-plain dark gray suit found himself facing a whole crew of interested onlookers. Somehow, Alan couldn’t feel sorry for him.

“Sir!” Drakon sat up straight, the brassy scale mail of a Partevian general rustling faintly. He reddened, as if he’d just remembered what he was wearing, and cast a scowl at Yunan that should have been arrested for assault with a deadly on the spot.

SAC Haughn raised a peppered brow, looking his younger agent over from red cape to pointed-toed armored boots. Spared a glance for Sarah and Matt, in her simple Sindrian white dress and the kid’s Heliohapt-style open-sided tunic. Stared, just a moment, before slowly scanning the rest of the assorted rescuers.

Alan didn’t even try to hide a grin. Malachy looked even more stoic and scary than usual in the white tunic and bronze armor of a Reim gladiator. Tiburon was grinning like an exhausted golden jackal, all Heliohapt’s white and gold wrapped in a Sindrian green-edged white robe. Ja’far had an almost perfectly neutral assassin’s smirk, carrying off a Sindrian court official’s green headscarf and white linen with resigned grace. And Simon, of course, was the most flamboyant of them all; violet hair still caught back with his own silver and leather tie, but glimmering in white robes over the gold-edged purple tunic of Sindria’s lost king.

Haughn, Alan noted, did not miss the swords. Any of them. Or their small trio of desert-lost kid dress, even behind Sam doing his best to look utterly ordinary, and just coincidentally block casual stares at Maria and the others. And definitely not Yunan, as the magi in the floppy hat did his best to look like just another part of the airport greenery.

_Mom always said SAC Haughn was sharp_.

Haughn… sighed. Closed his eyes a moment, as if hoping this would all vanish while he wasn’t looking.

Alan stifled a chuckle, feeling his own blush burn. _When the Guatemalan street rats are the most normal looking guys in the room, you may have a problem_.

Richard cleared his throat. “I can explain everything,” he said smoothly. “And what I can’t, I’m sure Mr. Cavins will.”

“No,” Haughn said firmly. “No, I don’t think I want you to explain anything.”

“Sir?” Drakon frowned, obviously concerned.

“Agent Dominguez… Domingo,” Haughn sighed. “I know this was in no way your fault, and if someone had laid hands on my family, I’d probably have done… whatever you managed to get yourself into.”

Drakon’s blush deepened.

“But the fact remains that someone,” Haughn eyed the room at large, “just managed to take a flamethrower to the pit of copperheads I’ve been trying to sneak up on with nets for the past four years.”

_Why does everybody look at me when someone says stuff like that?_

“Mr. Ryans,” Haughn said dryly. “Somehow I knew you’d be up to your ears in this.”

“My son is a minor,” Richard started, shoulders thrown back and ready for a fight.

“I know. I know,” Haughn said tiredly. “But if it hadn’t been for both the Ryans and a certain landfill, I never would have known where to start looking. And… I can’t thank Anne, anymore.”

Alan sat up straight, meeting the man’s gaze no matter how tired he was. “She wasn’t sure we could trust you, you know.”

“From what I’ve found out about Agent Biegen so far, I can’t blame her,” Haughn said bluntly. “And from other informants. I caught a certain young man called Pablo taking his cousin out of a Shays-owned facility. He didn’t want to talk, but she apparently made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Something about a rescued unicorn.” That drew a smile from the agent, tired or not; but it vanished again with his next words. “Apparently the Shays have ways of… making people forget certain things.”

Against his back, Alan felt Maria stiffen. He drew a breath, and nodded. “It’s why we had to find everything with a paper trail. The kids tried to help. But they couldn’t remember who hurt them.”

“Well, my office and Child Services now has at least two dozen illegal kids and three missing locals in the exact same boat,” Haughn said bluntly. “We may not know what happened but we can at least show it did happen.” He paused. “If I can keep it from happening to my agents.”

“It shouldn’t work if you’re not in the same room,” Ja’far said clinically. “And not at all if you’ve searched them well. They apparently need some chemical help to pull it off.”

“Thank you,” Haughn said gruffly. “That’s what I needed to know.” He stared at his younger agent. “Domingo. Take your family and get out of town.”

“Sir-”

_“This isn’t a request.”_

Alan tensed, feeling Simon’s eyes narrow from across the room as their principal prepared to defend one of his Generals.

“You’re a witness, Domingo. All of you are,” Haughn said flatly. “You can’t be investigating your own case. More important, you’re one of the agents I know I can trust, but your cousin Ernesto is in this up to his eyeteeth. And we both know all Homeland Security has to do is breathe _counterterrorism_ , and all of you could end up in custody who knows how long. If you’re lucky. This is a mass murder case. The Shays have every reason to make sure there are no inconvenient witnesses left standing. I want you, your family, and everyone in this room _out of Boston_.”

“Because if the Shays have every pay phone in town bugged, who knows what else they’ve got?” Alan put in.

“They what?” Both agents rounded on him.

“It was why we couldn’t call,” Morgan said quietly. “Every phone we came near had their traps on it.”

“Traps?” Haughn said darkly.

“Probably part of what you don’t want explained, sir,” Drakon sighed.

“No,” Haughn agreed reluctantly. “No, I don’t. But you will write up an explanation, Agent Dominguez. And take depositions from everyone involved. After you’re out of town.”

Alan breathed a sigh of relief.

“Everyone but you.” Haughn eyed Sister Thomasina as if he were measuring her for shackles. “Your Order would throw ten kinds of fits if you disappeared, which means you’re the safest person here. You, I intend to talk to. In detail.”

The elderly nun drew herself up straight. “Save the subtle threats, Agent Haughn. I am not afraid.”

“Sister.” Haughn’s Boston accent was even flatter than usual. “When I threaten you, it won’t be subtle.”

“Stop it.” Alan was on his feet, even if Morgan kept a hand bracing him. “Just stop. Don’t you get it? This is how the Shays have kept this going all these centuries! They find a wedge, they find where people don’t trust each other, and then they split everybody who’d stop them apart. So _stop it_.” He met Haughn’s gaze. “She did what she thought was right. You don’t have to like it. Just respect it.” He took a breath, turning toward Sister Thomasina-

That wasn’t just Morgan’s hand bracing him. Aladdin’s was, too.

“My mom is dead.” Alan wasn’t going to let his voice shake. “She never got to do what she planned. So maybe you ought to think about that, Sister. Because Mom was a _reporter_.”

_And here’s where I bluff_.

“And I have her notes.”

It wasn’t a lie. He did. At least all the ones that still existed. Mrs. Silversmith and his father had seen to that; and if he was angry they’d cleaned out the condo then he was going to be angry about it _later_ , someplace he could take it out on a few rocks instead of people. Because maybe he didn’t like his father’s wife, but she’d been honest: Boston was too hot for him to stay, and leaving _anything_ behind was an invitation to have it destroyed, or worse. And if Richard was his father, then they were going to act like responsible parents and get everything he still owned out of the death zone.

So he had Anne’s notes. And his own.

_Now I get to see what Sister thinks I’d do with them_.

Judging by how she paled, it wasn’t good.

From that hiss of Richard’s breath, his father found that the absolute last straw.

“It’s a good thing we’re going home, Uncle Simon,” Aladdin put in, before anyone could explode. “I learned a lot. But Boston’s been kind of… really not fun.”

“Remind me to tell you about Antarctica sometime,” Simon reflected. “Although at least in Antarctica, no one was shooting at me.” He rubbed his hands together, and gave Drakon his best devil-may-care grin. “And I told you, our home is your home, as long as you need it. You are coming, aren’t you? My students could use a proper character study for an Honest FBI Agent-”

How you could _hear_ the capitals in that, Alan wanted to find out.

“-they _always_ overplay the role.” Violet brows arched, he glanced at Maria’s little kid-pack. “Plus, we need someone to help us train up all these little Hamlets. Hopefully with far better survival instincts than their namesake, everyone dies at the end is just the wrong way to end a good story! And given what happened last season - well, the next game our Mascot will prevail through the _power of adorable!_ And overwhelming numbers.”

“How have you not ended up wearing a straitjacket?” Drakon wondered, face slipping from anger into honest, rueful curiosity.

“Well, don’t tell anyone, but I’m actually not crazy,” Simon shrugged. “I just _look_ crazy because most people are woefully under-informed about what actually constitutes reality.”

“...Scary thing is,” Alan said ruefully, “he’s actually right.”

* * *

If this were Heaven, then the couches were almost as bad as those on Earth. The rukh had a case of the giggles. And there was an odd lingering smell of pizza.

“Don’t try to get up too fast, Magister.” Phaenomena’s voice, tired and relieved. “You’ve been out for almost two days.”

Callimachus blinked, taking in the brightness of the rukh fluttering through the odd little Arabian nest of a room, the neutral expression on Ja’far’s face, the quiet smirks Malachy and Tiburon were trading, and the grin on Simon Cavins, as he sat sideways, curled up against a pile of tasseled cushions. “We’re not dead.” _Which means they want something_.

“No, you’re not,” Simon agreed. “Aladdin was very insistent that you _not_ be dead, by the way. Pulled out some totally unfair stories about Sinbad and a certain assassin... well, I suppose those _were_ fair, but that assassin didn’t go after children in Sinbad’s care. So I’m still very angry at you. Very.” He took a deliberate breath. “But when you thought you were dying, your last act was to try and warn us what the Shays were capable of. And that... that makes me think you deserve a chance. I’m holding you to that archive access, by the way. We’re learning a lot.”

Callimachus winced. He’d spent centuries gathering those tomes, carefully sorting false information from true-

“You could learn a lot, too. If you wanted.”

Which meant Cavins had his complete and undivided attention, and the man knew it. Grrr.

“From what your companion tells us, all you’ve really wanted was to bring magic back to the strength of the legends,” Simon went on. “I think you saw what we’ve managed of that.”

The alchemist nodded, not trusting his voice.

“I have magicians in this school,” Simon stated. “Magicians, and magoi-users, and people who just want to know enough about magic to treat it with the respect it deserves: a difficult, intricate art that can help us all do what might otherwise be impossible.” He pointed at Callimachus, then Phaenomena. “Magician. Magoi-user. I want to hire you.”

“To work with... teenagers,” Callimachus stated, almost hoping he hadn’t read the man accurately.

“And younger children. And a few adults, as we pick them up,” Simon agreed. “I did say I was still angry at you. What’s redemption without a bit of penance?”

It made a frightening amount of sense.

“Aladdin’s a very nice kid, but he still has hopes anyone can be redeemed,” Simon mused. “I wasn’t at all sure about you, but Boston demonstrated that you at least have _standards_.” He grinned. It had an edge of teeth. “Though it also demonstrated that you have problems with the ideas of restraint, appropriate limits, and _innocent bystanders_.”

Ja’far snorted at that one.

Callimachus almost winced at the burning irony. When the man who’d played _Sinbad the Sailor_ thought someone needed a refresher on restraint....

“Lucky for you,” Simon said gleefully, “I just happen to have a facility devoted specifically to teaching mini-psychopaths how to function in the world at large without getting arrested. Much.”

Phaenomena stifled a yelp. Callimachus blinked. “A high school.”

“Exactly!” Simon beamed. “Training in appropriate social behavior, resources for socialization, plenty of after-school and during-school opportunities to blow things up and otherwise work off stress - you’ve never been to a modern high school, have you?” The grin sharpened again. “I’m told it’s comparable to the Ninth Circle of Hell. Though I try to make mine more along the lines of the first two circles. Hopefully more like the First,” he added thoughtfully. “Teenagers don’t need any more lust in the mix.”

An _educated_ actor. Callimachus felt the world tilt.

“Oh, and don’t worry,” Simon mused. “You will have appropriate supervision. Until we’re sure you can be trusted around students. Who can be idiots. Provocative, infuriating, incredibly foolhardy idiots.” He tapped his fingers together, Gleeful Evil. “And if you can learn to keep your temper and not fry the lot of them, you’ll be _quite_ well rehabilitated, in my book.”

That... was a truly terrifying thought.

“Instructor Tiburon says he could use a hand training certain people in lethal combat techniques,” Phaenomena put in, hand resting on his. “He’s going to be spending more time training Hancock students, so he’d like someone to help him take on adults used to brutal hand-to-hand.”

And that uncoiled a knot in his gut Callimachus hadn’t fully realized was there. Phaenomena thought this could work. That they would be useful here. Wanted - even if not fully trusted. Yet. “And if we say no?”

“Then you get to walk away, with the knowledge that if we find you on our grounds again, we will kill you,” Ja’far said steadily. “And you never find out what’s on the other side of a tower door.”

Callimachus nodded, considering that. Glanced at his compatriot; Phaenomena might defer to him in magic, but she read people better than he ever had.

She looked steadily back. And winked.

“If you want this to work, we’ll have to have a good cover story,” Callimachus said plainly, looking over them all. “What I saw....” God. What he’d seen. “That boy... he appeared to be... is he _really_ the Fire Prince?”

“If you mean, are Amon and Amon’s king the source of the legends,” Tiburon spoke up, “then as far as we can tell, yes.” The swordsman gave him a level, almost amused look. “And I’m glad it’s Alan who holds Amon’s contract, because that young man would really rather not blow things up or set them on fire unless there’s no other alternative. I _am_ going to have to teach him to get past that, you weren’t the first and you won’t be the last to try to kill him - but all things considered, I’d rather teach a nonviolent teenager to defend himself than try to get a violent one to tone it down.” Tiburon smiled. “He does love fire. That’s a good place to start. And I think I know where I can borrow a handy artillery range.”

“Well.” Callimachus took a slow breath, considering that. “Myth or not, you can’t muster that power long, or Alan would never have allowed the Shays to hold him as long as he did. Which means we’ll need to keep magic out of public view until we have far more students trained in the ways of the rukh. So.” He arched a brow at Simon. “What will I _officially_ be teaching?”

The principal grinned. “How are you at physics?”

* * *

Drakon regarded the small folder of folded notes on the Silversmiths’ kitchen table; reached out to tap a finger on the half-dozen plastic shapes Alan had told Aladdin were called flash drives. “So this is it.”

“Everything I know about that Mom had, that wasn’t in her obvious research.” Alan shifted in his chair, gaze dropping for a moment. “There’s probably... other stuff in there too. She was always working a half-dozen stories at once. Could take a while to sort through.”

Aladdin shifted a little closer, so Alan could feel the warmth of him near enough to lean on. Caught Morgan’s eye as she leaned in from Alan’s right, and smiled. Not that Morgan was fooled. They both knew if Alan was letting them scrunch in this close, he was probably worried out of his mind.

_And I can’t blame him_ , Aladdin reflected. Maria was right by Morgan, looking almost calm. If you couldn’t feel the twitches of lightning rukh tickling her fingers. And why wouldn’t she be upset? The Dominguez’ were the people Alan had rescued out of the tower, and the Silversmiths gathered around the other side of the table were Alan’s birth family. And she was, well... an evil man’s daughter.

_But Alan’s not like that_ , Aladdin knew. _We just need to tell her that_.

Lucky for all of them, they’d managed to keep Maria away from Bertram. Aladdin was hoping they’d be able to keep that up until Mrs. Silversmith had decided what she planned to do. That lady was almost as scary as Sarah.

“I think he’s saying you might have information on totally innocent people in there, dear,” Sarah observed, glancing toward the other room where Matt was hopefully ensconced with cartoons and the younger children. “So poke through it carefully.”

“Well... I wouldn’t say _completely_ innocent.” Alan rubbed the back of his neck, trying to look harmless. “But - yeah. She didn’t tell me everything she was working on. So I can’t tell you what not to look at.” He swallowed, and sighed. “I’m going to have to trust you.”

Drakon scowled.

“Oh come on, I know I can trust you.” Alan’s smile had just a hint of mischief. “You followed Simon through man-eating monsters to get your family back. You’re one of the good guys.”

“Man-eating monsters.” Richard’s voice was suspiciously calm.

Drakon winced. “From what information I was able to get before Simon... short-circuited the computers, those appear to have been-” He had to stop, and shake his head. “A side-effect.”

Fingers interwoven and clenching, white-knuckled, Sam cleared his throat. “ _Monsters_ were...?”

“Ja’far thinks they were using Life Magic to make some kinds of odd medicines,” Aladdin told him. “And the easiest way to do it was make things that were almost-alive creatures to grow it.”

“Insane as it may seem, that’s consistent with the files I managed to get,” Drakon gritted out. “The radioactivity appears to have been essential for maintaining the lifeforms’ stability inside the tanks. Outside the labs - apparently they made a practice, every few months, of removing a small creature and leaving it in various shipping facilities to decompose. So there were traces of possible dirty bombs to find.”

“My god,” Richard breathed. Stared at Alan. “And you think this has been going on for centuries.”

“This, specifically? Probably not,” Alan shrugged. “I mean, Madame Curie didn’t even start poking radioactive stuff until the 1890s, right? But if you mean this, taking people to drain out their energy, to kill them slowly.... Yeah. That’s been going on a long, long time.”

“Anne found evidence of that?” Richard grimaced. “If she’d only told someone-”

“No. She didn’t.” Alan took a deep breath. “I don’t know how to tell you this so it makes sense, so - I guess I have to show you. Sam? Hand me a lock. Any lock.”

Morgan stirred. “Are you sure?”

“We’ve got to trust someone sometime,” Alan said quietly. “Better to start with the good guys, right?”

_And you’re starting with you_ , Aladdin thought, wishing he was that brave. _Because the Silversmiths know you. You’re letting them know what you can do, so they won’t be afraid of the rest of us_.

Alan took the padlock Sam scooted across the table, held it up in clear view. Set it down, and planted a finger on the edge of the dial near the solid arc of steel. His lips moved, Aladdin felt the flow of magoi-

_Snick_.

Richard and Sam were both staring at the open lock. Edna’s gaze rested on it a moment, then went to Maria. _Considering_.

“The villagers said we were witches,” Maria whispered. “But we are not! Witches deal with evil spirits, they hurt and harm - we are not them! We just, when there is fear on us, when we are angry....”

“Things happen,” Alan finished. “Fires in wastebaskets. Stuff shorting out. Dust-devils in people’s eyes. It’s not malice. It’s _accidental magic_.” He shrugged, a faint smile on his face. “The... lock thing started out as that, too. I didn’t realize it was anything strange. Until I ran into Aladdin.” He looked down again. “But Mom knew. She knew, and... she never told me....”

“Alan,” Richard said softly.

“I’m - going to get a handle on that, now,” Alan got out. “Simon - Principal Cavins actually knows about this stuff. And Ja’far, and Yunan; they’ve seen magicians and magoi-users before, they can help the kids, help Maria, so they learn how to do magic on purpose. Not by accident.” He looked up. “They’ve got to learn that. Because the Shays are still out there, people like them are out there, and these kids are _targets_.”

Maria winced. “People like my father.”

“You’re not him.” Alan turned to look her in the eye, blazing with determination. “Maria, you’re _not him_. You did the best you could, you got away from him-”

“I knew he was coming! I knew he was coming for you!” Maria was shivering, rukh around her flashing gray as night storms. “I came, I came to save you - and he took Señora Anne...!”

“That wasn’t your fault.” Edna moved around the table, opened her arms so the girl could lunge at her and hold on. “You did the best you could with what you knew. That’s all you could do.” Her gaze rose to Alan’s. “That’s all any of us can do.”

Alan held that look, and nodded.

And for just a minute that made Aladdin want to burn something with fire, because it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t _fair_ , the things people did to Alan, that they’d done to Alibaba, and got to walk away, because his friend didn’t believe in revenge....

“Yes; though I don’t know what Sister Thomasina thinks she knows,” Richard said bitterly. “I knew Anne. She might have made life uncomfortable for the wealthy and the corrupt, but she’d never hurt children. How could she think you would?” He rubbed his knuckles between his eyebrows. “Alan, why didn’t you come to me? Even to ask?”

“Ah, lawyer?” Alan said wryly. “You’re legally bound to report criminal actions or be disbarred. You want me to quote the statutes, or just leave it at, you _have to report_ lawbreaking stuff? You could lose your license if you don’t.” He held up a hand, ticking off a finger at a time. “Crossing state borders as an unaccompanied minor. Airplane... I don’t know, is it ticket fraud if they didn’t know you were on it? Unlawfully stowing away on a passenger jet, whatever they hit you with for slipping TSA security, arson. Major property damage. And how. Arson. Causing a public disturbance - we did a bunch of those. Arson, unlawful entry, breaking and entering, destruction of property, arson, vandalism, endangerment of a minor, probably several minors-”

“Don’t forget possession of burglary tools,” Sarah put in, amused.

“Aaand I was hoping people would miss those... Assault. Multiple counts. Battery, likewise. Assault with a deadly. And-” Alan winced. “Shay’s Folly would have been multiple homicide. Except it was their monsters that... ate who was left there.”

Richard was pale. Sam was dead white. “They ate them?” he croaked.

“We killed them all,” Morgan said firmly. “And burned out the slime that was left. It’s over.”

“Unless they have more labs,” Drakon sighed. “What a nightmare.”

Richard was kneading a headache with his fingertips. “You’re saying that we actually _live_ in a Simon Cavins grade-B action horror movie.”

“Told you he wasn’t crazy.” Alan grinned. “More like action crossed with Sinbad, though. So the good guys win. As long as we keep practicing.” He took a deep, deep breath. “So... what do you want to do now?”

“By _practicing_ I take it you mean continuing with,” Richard hesitated, “the course of study Principal Cavins assigned you.”

“They shot at us,” Alan said practically. “We need to know how to duck.”

“They-” Richard shook his head, and looked Aladdin in the eye. “Simon said you were from another _world_.”

“I am,” Aladdin said simply. Two other worlds, but there wasn’t any point in confusing people right now. “But now I’m here. And I can’t go back.” Unless he went through a dungeon and stayed in Alma Torran, but-

_My family wouldn’t be there. I’d miss them_.

“Simon’s going to be a good uncle,” Aladdin smiled. “Ja’far says he needs the practice, in case someone finally gets him to settle down and get married.” Which he hadn’t seen a chance of with Sinbad, no matter how Sindria’s king had flirted with Kougyoku... but this time around, maybe. Simon was gentler than Sinbad. Less wounded.

_I’m just glad he only got the really old memories_ , Aladdin thought soberly, thinking back to the careful, careful poking he and Ja’far had done after they’d gotten back here and were rested enough to be gentle with their magic. _Baal’s pretty sure he blocked everything after Sinbad met Madaura; Mariadel, whatever she called herself. I hope so_.

As it was, Simon had been more than shaken enough, muttering about needing to invite his parents to take their vacation here so he could hug them. A lot. Because Sinbad had loved his parents Esra and Badr as fiercely as Simon loved Althea and Barney Cavins - and had lost them, all too soon.

_I’ve got to meet them. They must be_ awesome.

And maybe they’d have more ideas than Ja’far on how to beat Simon over the head - um, _talk_ to him about doing things for his people without asking. Because honestly. The rukh had been pretty quiet about it... but he and Yunan were magi. Aladdin could track down giggles in the rukh around the Generals, and Alan and Morgan-

And himself.

It’d been so _subtle_. Simon had just helped them get settled in the plane when everyone was half-asleep already, eyes crossing and the world blurry and too loud, especially the engines. He’d been trying to get comfortable in his seat, leaning it back so they could maybe sleep, and Simon’s hands had just... rubbed across his shoulders, in a kind of small-circles pattern that had gotten at some of the tired knots....

And had made the rukh perk up and poke, with a collective, _Neat!_

It was such a tiny, tiny change in magoi flow. But tiny things over a long time had a way of adding up.

_It’s like what Callimachus has on himself_ , Aladdin knew now. _Like some of the things Ja’far had worked into his rukh. Only it’s older. More complete_.

Yunan hadn’t recognized it. Baal had - and Aladdin had a strong suspicion Amon had as well, and wasn’t planning to say anything.

_It’s the old spell. From Alma Torran. The one that let human magicians stay around a long, long time_....

And Amon and Baal both had millennia-old pent-up fury about losing their kings way too soon. Nope. Aladdin would just bet the Djinn weren’t going to say _anything_.

Which wasn’t the right thing to do... but right now, Aladdin wasn’t sure what was the right thing to do. Because Drakon still had a familiar mixed in with his own rukh, and if the agent ended up in serious physical danger Bararaq Barasikh was probably going to wrestle him for the body’s magoi first and worry about potential transformations later. At least with Simon’s spell on him the agent was a lot less likely to die. Which gave them some time to think, and hopefully work out a spell that would keep Drakon human permanently.

_Sarah wouldn’t mind; Sahar didn’t then, she loved him so much_ , Aladdin thought. _But this world’s a lot more dangerous for someone who looks different... and Drakon didn’t have a son in Sindria. What would Barasikh waking up do to Matt?_

Ouch. Talking to Yunan and Ja’far about that _definitely_ had to come before thumping Simon about anything.

Besides. Knowing Sinbad, and from what he knew of Simon so far - it wasn’t like there would be a _shortage_ of times to thump Simon.

* * *

“Ladies, gentlemen, students!”

_I want to kill him_ , Callimachus thought darkly, eyeing Simon’s back as they all stood before the auditorium of assembled teenagers. _Well... maim at least. I doubt I’d have much luck with “kill”. Not with his warriors around him_.

Although Ja’far had a slightly pinched look around his eyes Callimachus was coming to recognize as the Life magician’s own “must maim later”. Why was he not surprised?

“I hope your Labor Day weekend was as much fun as ours,” Simon went on. “No, don’t wake those three up, they’ve earned the nap. Especially not you, Dash. If you’re lucky you’d only wake up Aladdin and get plastered to the ceiling. If you’re not you’d _half_ wake up Alan and that would be fatal. At least to your uniform-”

Ja’far poked him.

“As I was saying,” Simon sailed gallantly on, “last weekend was... busy. Interesting, but busy. You may have noticed the tower is currently missing. We’re going to work on that, because now that we’ve figured out the time distortion possible inside there is no way I could survive a concerted attack by our local geeks and magicians determined to fight for extra study time.”

Over in the shadows of the stage, Callimachus saw Yunan clap a hand to his face in disbelief.

_Why? The chance to study time distortion... I wonder how it affects the moments of astrology? If the stars here are what matter, that shouldn’t change them, but if stars there make a difference - dear god, what if that’s one of the reasons behind errors in natal charts? If you have to account for rising stars that aren’t visible from Earth...._

“I honestly haven’t come up with a summary yet of everything you probably want to know about what happened,” Simon said bluntly. “Let’s just say, if you think you see us putting up certain... defenses... around Hancock, you’re right. Some of my people managed to run into some very unpleasant individuals from an even more unpleasant family, and if they’re not smart enough to take our warning to back off, your teachers are taking measures to be sure they will not be disrupting class time. One way or another. And speaking of unpleasantness....” He waved at the alchemist.

Gritting his teeth, Callimachus inclined his head to the assembled youngsters.

“Stay calm, Magister,” Phaenomena murmured at him from the stage wings. “They can _smell_ fear.”

_Hah. As if I’d be afraid of high school students_.

Then again, these were _Cavins’_ students.

“Everyone, this is Mr. Carl Marks,” Simon announced, drawing on one of Callimachus’ more well-grounded identities. “As far as the Department of Education is concerned, he’ll be teaching physics, astronomy, and a few other interesting subjects. As far as you’re concerned - he is assigned to be menacing!”

_What_.

“You might consider him our newly-hired Snape,” Simon went on.

_I’m going to kill him_.

“He’s definitely our school’s Token Evil Teammate,” Simon said cheerfully. As if he couldn’t hear an alchemist’s teeth grind. “I know, I know; previously that honor’s been held by Vice-Principal Ja’far. I’m sad to say, though, that as of this weekend Ja’far has lost some of his previously Evil credentials. Though I’m not sure he’s realized it yet. I mean, if your first reaction on meeting an injured enemy is to make sure he lives – well, that definitely moves you across the alignment chart to Neutral at least.” Simon jerked a thumb at the alchemist. “Him, though – Neutral Evil. Definitely.”

_I’m going to mangle him first_. Then _kill him_.

“In all honesty, people, Mr. Marks is going to be a key part of your new safety training curriculum,” Simon said candidly. “He will be helping you work on your observation, improvisation, and nonstandard physics procedures! Under _almost_ near-combat conditions.” The annoying man tapped the podium. “So, if he makes any hostile moves, you dodge. And let one of the Dungeon Monitors know, preferably immediately.” He ruffled a few pages. “Ah. Yes. I need to explain Dungeon Monitors, don’t I? Especially given our very own giant tower monster playground is currently missing. Currently. Don’t worry, we’re going to fix that, even if I have to help someone drag it back from another planet! With that in mind,” he rubbed his hands eagerly, “Ja’far, wake our sleeping beauties up, they’re going to be our first victims….”

* * *

Seated in his home office, Richard riffled the small sheaf of papers Simon had sent home for anyone planning to be involved in the dungeons, and gave Tiburon a look that said the stack ought to be at least three times thicker, with _hazard to life and limb_ written all over it. “So you’re not just planning to teach my son self-defense. You’re deliberately taking him and other students into an… actively hazardous area.”

Tiburon sat attentively in the visitor’s chair, determined to keep this civil. And accurate. _Do not growl at the man for slowing you down_ , he told himself. _You figured in convincing-time into the itinerary. The artillery range will still be there when you’re done_. “An area where magic, magical creatures, and various magical hazards are present, yes.”

Richard winced. “Why? Haven’t they been in enough danger already?” He rapped the pages on the desk. “What possible experience do you have dealing with these… hazards?”

“Several years’ worth,” Tiburon said plainly. _Not all years in this world, but that’s another matter_. “And yes, they _have_ been in danger. That’s why they need the experience, under controlled conditions. So that the next time a dragon decides to strafe the school grounds, it’s not just up to one young man to stop it.”

“Why should there even be a next time?” Richard said seriously. “That… tower, is gone.” _And good riddance_ , his tense shoulders said. “You can’t seriously think someone ought to bring it back.”

“It’s not up to me, but yes, actually, I do,” Tiburon stated. “As I said. It’s a place where the students can get experience with magic under controlled conditions. They need that chance. Before they run into more creatures like those the Shays had on hand-”

“If there are monsters out there we should call the government,” Richard cut him off. “Call in the army. Call in an airstrike. That’s what they’re there for!”

“Yes, because that works so _well_ in all the Godzilla movies,” Tiburon said dryly. “Mr. Silversmith… Richard. As I understand the situation, after several thousand years in which magic’s been a relatively weak force in the universe, it’s now becoming exponentially stronger. Which means even if a tower never rises again,” _and I’d never count on that, Yunan has ideas about proper guidance of the world_ , “then inexperienced magicians, people who never _knew_ they were magicians, might accidentally set off magical reactions that can create catastrophes. Giant monsters included. And that would be without the malevolent, trained magicians we know are already out there. Like the Shays.”

“If magicians are the problem-”

Tiburon’s eyes narrowed. “In case you’ve forgotten, Aladdin is a magician. So is Maria. So are most of her little ones.”

“All the more reason to bring this to the authorities and get them officially recognized,” Richard stated, eyes just as hard. “The Shays could never have gotten away with… what they did… if it weren’t for the fact that no one knew they could _do_ it. Bring it out into the open, get it legally recognized, and we can arrest them like any other criminal.”

“Richard….” _Gently, gently, keep your temper, the man has a reasonable question._ “How do you prove you _can’t_ do magic?”

The lawyer frowned. “I don’t see your point.”

_More like you don’t want to_. “If you’re a magician, known to have supernatural powers,” Tiburon said plainly, “how do you prove you _didn’t_ start something on fire? Or give someone cancer? Or pick a lock and steal the missing super-secret data that will get even a suspected thief landed in federal prison for espionage?”

Richard stared back at him. “That’s not how the American justice system works. We don’t charge people with crimes without evidence. All we have to do is train people to pick up the forensic traces of magic-”

“Who’s going to train them?” Tiburon cut him off. “Every sane magician I know of is _scared to death_ of the government. Any government. You want to try telling Ja’far he should put himself at the mercy of elected officials? He’d disappear faster than ice cubes on an August sidewalk. And if he goes, Simon goes.” Tiburon shook his head, trying not to shudder at the thought of a Simon-and-Ja’far-shaped hole in his life. “And that will open a Pandora’s box you really don’t want to touch, believe me.”

“You can’t just live outside the law forever,” Richard said quietly.

“None of us want to be outside the law,” the swordsman stated. _Well, most of us don’t_. “But bringing magic to official attention while the only trained magicians we have would bolt – that won’t help anyone. Simon has a plan for us to become completely legitimate. But it will take _time_.” He took a breath. “Time to train magicians who aren’t terrified of people finding out what they can do. Time to train perfectly ordinary people how to deal with magic when they don’t have any themselves, so they know it’s not something to be afraid of. Time to build all our students a place of sanctuary, so when it does come out in public, they have someplace to go when people panic. Because people _always_ panic.”

_And if people find out exactly what Full Equip can do too soon, they’ll do worse than panic_ , Tiburon thought grimly. _Do you want an airstrike called on your own son?_

No. He’d better not even hint at that. Alan and Simon both needed time to master their Equips, for everyone’s safety. And for their own sanity.

“If it helps,” Tiburon shrugged, “I can promise nothing we’re getting up to tonight is illegal. It shouldn’t even be dangerous.” Well. Not to Alan or Simon, at least. Or to innocent bystanders. As long as they kept a good distance.

_That poor, poor artillery range_ ….

* * *

“Augh!”

_Thump_.

_Must not snicker_ , Alan told himself firmly, listening to Simon swear at various scaly additions and their effect on balance. Morgan was biting her lip, eyes bright; Aladdin was giggling under his breath. Tiburon was rolling his eyes and patiently sitting on the minivan’s bumper, while Malachy looked over the short grass of the artillery range, rustling with night lizards and burrowing owls. _Must not. Working out how Equip works is always kind of tricky_.

Hard not to when Ja’far was cackling. Evilly.

“Fighting spirit my foot,” Simon grumbled, eyeing blue scales as his tail twitched. “I used to know how this worked!”

“Different life, different rukh,” Alan pointed out, Amon’s Vessel still resting under his shirt. No point in burning magoi in a Full Equip until Simon could at least stand. “What you remember from back then helps, you know what you’re aiming for, but the way you moved your energy back then isn’t the way it’ll work this time.” What was the best way to- right. “It’s like magoi manipulation. How you do it now’s not how you did it then, right?”

“I actually don’t remember how I did it then,” Simon admitted, leaning a scaled hand on Ja’far’s shoulder as he tried a few unsteady steps. “Sinbad learned that… much later than those memories of his that I do have.”

_Not sure whether to be relieved or terrified_ , Alan thought. Aladdin had done some very _careful_ poking, with Ja’far’s help, Simon’s willing permission, and Yunan watching in case any flux of power went wrong. Together they’d managed to track down what that mess of magic in the Folly had stirred up of Sinbad’s memories. Alan hadn’t asked for details; as far as he was concerned, what a guy had in his own head was the ultimate privacy. Even sharing a little headspace with a Djinn shouldn’t rob somebody of that. But Simon had volunteered a few of the highlights: winning Baal, winning Vaalefor, starting up his trading company in Reim with Rashid’s help, taking in a very humbled and desperate Drakon and getting him to stand proud again, dragon-form or not. Apparently Baal had managed to block off anything past then.

Which had left Ja’far white-faced, and almost in tears of gratitude. _You don’t want the details_ , he’d said, even when Simon asked flat-out. _Mariadel enslaved Sinbad. She broke him – broke_ you _– and our path was always shadowed after that_.

Which had made Yunan start, as if he hadn’t known _anything about this_ , and Alan had had a hard time telling Amon that no, they really shouldn’t drag out a little flame to set Yunan’s hat on fire. He wasn’t sure he was up to giving Yunan just a _gentle_ reminder on how magi were supposed to be helpful and non-cryptic before they up and decided a King Vessel couldn’t be saved. Because yes, Yunan had saved his life and helped them save Sinbad and the whole world-

But given Amon’s level of sheer snarl every time the blond magi came in view, his Djinn had definite opinions about what Yunan had known about the consequences of the spell sealing Aladdin in to fix the rukh. Had known, and _hadn’t told any of them_.

Because the world was more important than two souls. Even if those souls were his friends.

“Thank Solomon you don’t remember,” Ja’far muttered. “Magoi techniques from back then aren’t worth what happened to you after Partevia.” He shuddered. “But Alan has a point. Try to focus more on _now_ , not then.”

_Simon’s listening to me for advice on Full Equip_. Alan shook his head. _That’s scary_.

Then again, he had no idea how Sinbad had worked it out the first time. It was possible that what he’d managed to hammer out with Amon was an improvement. And if that were the case, he really did want to light Yunan on fire. Just a little. Aladdin hadn’t known what a magi was supposed to do, and he’d been dumped halfway across the world by the closing portal. The fact that Alibaba had been left alone with a flaming dagger and his own guesses wasn’t his friend’s fault.

_Yunan knew better._

Knew better, and yet he _wasn’t here_. That they knew of. He might be watching from a distance. Alan would be kind of surprised if he weren’t. Yunan still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that Simon _wasn’t Sinbad_. That this was a new world. That they had another chance.

The magi had just been so _tired_ when Alibaba had met him. Tired of watching empires rise and fall. Of seeing people tear themselves apart without strong kings. Of seeing kings chosen, and all the bloody wreckage that resulted. Of knowing Al-Thamen was out there, tormenting innocent lives, and nothing he could do seemed to stop them.

_Guy needs a vacation. Big time_. Alan waited until after Morgan had snapped yet another picture of Simon’s flailing, then tapped her shoulder. “No pouncing the poor guy while he can’t fight back.”

Magenta eyes gleamed. “But it _twitches_.”

Simon froze, glancing their way. Malachy grinned. Tiburon thumped a hand against the minivan’s open door, trying to muffle his giggles.

Ja’far had a suspiciously straight face. As if his fingers were just itching to get in on the pounces.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Simon glanced behind him, Equip-aqua brows drawn down as he tried to twitch it deliberately. “Baal, _think about walking_ doesn’t help, I don’t normally have a center of gravity that low unless I’m in drag-”

“Dragon drag?” Tiburon’s eyes gleamed, almost as cat-intent as the Fanalis.

Which broke them all down laughing, Alan wasn’t sure why....

: _This is safety, my king_.: A stroke of long-nailed fire. : _I know you are not used to it_.:

_Safe_. Alan took a deep breath, catching Aladdin as the young magi giggled and clung to him. _We’re together, and we’re safe_.

Which meant it was okay to laugh while Simon thrashed around trying to figure Equip out. They had time. They could play.

_I bet even the Djinn could use some R &R_, Alan thought. _The only time they get to see the world is... well, emergencies_.

: _Given Solomon’s strictures are loosened, we can see much more than that, if we so choose_ ,: Amon mused. : _And if our king allows us_.:

_You can?_ Alan thought, surprised. _I mean, sure, go ahead, I know how much I hate being bored... this isn’t going to do anything weird, is it?_

: _The third eye was once normal for all humans of Alma Torran_ ,: Amon said loftily. : _Not that you have much of their heritage in your tangled family tree_.: An ancient chuckle. : _You are - how do humans put it in this world? Ah. A “back-alley mutt,” I believe._ :

_Hey, don’t knock us mutts_ , Alan thought back, as Simon scrambled back to scaled feet. _We may not look pretty, but we’re tough_.

: _So you are_.:

Alan watched Simon frown and concentrate, taking a few stalking steps. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the guy was trying to get in a tail-swing as jaunty as Godzilla in a good mood.

No, wait. This was Simon. He definitely was.

Which led to a few thoughts on other Equips, and _ow_.

Morgan frowned at him. “What is it?”

“Was just thinking I was luckier than I thought,” Alan quipped. “On the other hand, I just thought about what it must be like to Equip Belial, and ow my _brain_.”

“Belial?” Malachy frowned.

: _Ah yes. The Ushumgallu do look different, do they not?_ :

“You think a tail is bad? Try four eyes, four _arms_ , and wings,” Alan informed the Fanalis. “I have no idea how Hakuryuu managed to figure that out in just a few months.” And that was Amon being cagy and thoughtful. Eep.

“He was really, really stubborn,” Aladdin said, not laughing anymore. “Do you think he’s out there somewhere?”

Alan traded a glance with Morgan. She knew more than he did of how Hakuryuu had been while Alibaba’s soul had been… out, so to speak. “If he is, I know we’ll find him,” Morgan said firmly. “Or he’ll find us.”

“Hmm. Sometime you’ll have to give me details,” Simon reflected. “I know you say he was a friend, but Ja’far doesn’t toss around words like _world-ending disaster_ lightly.” He shrugged. “For now, though… how exactly does flying work?”

_I shouldn’t. I really, really shouldn’t_.

: _Why not?_ : A snap of amused flames. : _He’ll survive_.:

Alan flicked his fingers, loosening his wrists up. He might have been grinning. “Well… mostly it’s just learning how to miss the ground.”

“Learning how to-?” Simon saw the grin, and Ja’far’s prudent step to one side. “Wait-”

_Amon!_

Flames blazed over him, and he leapt even as Simon tried to dodge.

_Not fast enough_.

* * *

“Oof,” Tiburon winced as fire and lightning flashed overhead. “That had to hurt.”

“No, not that much,” Aladdin thought out loud, standing by Ja’far as they both watched their friends finally, _finally_ relax. “It’s just like you and Alan in a good spar. They’ll be fine.”

“They’ll probably have less bruises.” Leaning back against her uncle, Morgan shaded her eyes to watch orange streaks and blue sparks against night clouds. “I want to be up there.”

_I want my Vessel back_ , Aladdin heard in that wistful sigh. And couldn’t argue one bit. Morgan with flames would be _awesome_. “Just wait until they come down.”

Which got him skewered by looks, from Malachy’s curiosity to Ja’far’s wary interest. The magi grinned, and tugged at his braid. “I, um… don’t want to spoil the surprise?”

* * *

_Okay. That was fun_ , Alan had to admit; descending not too far from Simon, just in case his principal was a little shorter of magoi than he’d thought. _Though if we try this in a lightning storm, he’s going to have the upper hand. Unless Ja’far’s magoi-storing tricks can work for us, too_ ….

: _An intriguing thought_.: Amon _hmph_ ed. : _But if the Medium cannot be recreated, why should we need more power than a King can- ah. I see_.: A silent breath. : _Do you truly think the Shays would risk their own exposure to government eyes by bringing Simon’s school to official attention?_ :

_I hope not_ , Alan thought back. _But it’d be so easy for them to use someone like Biegen to go after us, and use that opening to pick off anyone who got separated. Heck, ordinary sleazeballs call the SWAT teams on people for fun. I’d just bet the Shays could do it on purpose. All it’d take would be one baby magician panicking, and a SWAT team calling for help, and everything would go to hell so fast_ ….

: _It is not an unreasonable worry_ ,: the Djinn said gravely. : _In a world where only a genius magician such as Yamraiha could store magoi, a kingdom under our protection would be well safeguarded from such evils. In this world, our enemies will soon learn they have access to more power than they ever imagined. And purely mundane weapons are far more dangerous than any we faced in that past life. If Hancock is to shelter under our power, even the powers of two Kings – it would not be unwise to take precautions_.:

_Damn_ , Alan thought ruefully, touching down. _I was hoping you’d say I’d been around Ja’far too long._

: _No_.: A sudden sense of stubborn silence, and an upheld, halting hand.

Alan frowned, but held onto his Equip, even as Simon fell flat on his back in the short grasses with a silver shimmer and a sigh of relief. “Fun,” Simon concluded, gazing up at the night. “But kind of a mix of live steel and _oh god that’s a long drop,_ fun.” He shook his head, purple hair swishing a bit of clover flowers. “Huh. I wonder… oh, it is? Thanks, that means I’m no crazier than usual.” Simon lifted his head just enough to look at the others, settling on Alan. “Baal says the whole _dragons aren’t a problem_ kind of scary push in our heads? Safety measure.”

“Safety measure?” Ja’far sputtered.

“Makes sense,” Malachy mused. “Don’t fight if you don’t have to. Don’t escalate, unless you have to.”

Morgan blinked at Alan, wide-eyed and interested. “It’s a safety measure _for everyone else_.”

_Kitten-blinks_. Alan froze, having second thoughts about his current shirtlessness. _Who needs dragons? I will be dead of the cute_.

And Aladdin was giggling behind his hands. That was just _not fair_.

Tiburon cleared his throat. Waved a questioning hand.

Alan shrugged. “I think Amon’s trying to get a read on how much magoi he has to work with. Without dragons and mini-fusion bottles.” Oh. And oy, how could he have forgotten? “Did you bring the bag?”

“Kind of heavy, but.…” Aladdin jumped up onto the minivan’s bumper, reaching in the back to drag out a blue-and-white satchel Yunan had found who knew where. Shouldn’t have been too many UConn Huskies fans in Boston. “Yunan says it should be safe now.”

Alan grinned, waving Morgan toward the bag. “All yours. I mean, I know it’s not flowers, or chocolate, but….”

Curious, Morgan unzipped it. Stared, and tapped a finger on hard metal, covered with a dark sheen of ash.

“Meteoric nickel-steel.” Alan shifted his weight from foot to fiery foot; hoping that was a surprised hesitation over there, not an unhappy one. “Some of what was in those slimes was cobalt isotopes. Easiest thing to do was make all of it that, and then hammer the cobalt into stable elements. Nickel, iron, just a little bit of carbon-”

Almost too fast to blink, he had an armful of happy Fanalis trying to squish his ribs.

_Thank goodness for Equip_. Alan hugged her back, and smiled hopefully at Tiburon. “I kind of thought maybe you or Malachy might know somebody who could make stuff for good Vessels?”

Tiburon and Malachy glanced at each other, knowing and amused. Reached out, and plucked Aladdin up by the shoulders to turn him the other way.

“Hey!” the young magi protested. “They were just about to get to the _good_ part!”

_Good part?_ Alan thought, slightly alarmed. _What good_ -

Which was about when he realized that Morgan had figured out that power or no power, someone in Full Equip still had ankles to tangle.

_Ack!_

* * *

Sitting on top of living fire, Morgan grinned. _So less breakable this way_.

Later she’d get more lessons from Aunt Shionne on how not to hurt pridemates who didn’t have Fanalis resilience. For now – it was nice to _not_ have to be careful. There’d barely been a flicker of fire when Alan hit the ground, and the way he was looking at her, wide-eyed and blushing, it hadn’t hurt any more than getting hit with a pillow.

…Which was another good idea. For later.

For right now, she was going to take a lesson from the pictures she’d snapped of Ja’far watching over Sinbad. Because the ex-assassin had apparently found the one sure way to get Kings to _sit still_.

Curling up on top of him, she purred.

_My Somali firecat Djinn Warrior_ , Morgan thought happily, resting her chin right on his shoulder so he would feel the vibration in his bones. _Loyal, and brave, and he brings me weapons!_

Steel wrested from the enemies’ own grasp, and the offer of a place in his Household. After he’d shown off what he could do, tossing fire around the sky like feathers.

Aunt Shionne was right. Even if she hadn’t known him and loved him forever, she couldn’t let him get away. He was just too _cute_.

* * *

Fingers stroked his hair behind his ears, crown to the nape of his neck; smooth and sure as a cat arching under a friendly hand.

Alan held very still, all his eyes wide. That was....

_Soft. Strong. Warm; life-warm, not fire. But no strong flow of magoi. Fanalis are tough, but-!_

: _We will not harm her_.: A reluctant grumble of amusement, like a log crumbling in a fireplace.

_But - she’s right on top of me_ , Alan thought, half-panicked, as those wonderful fingers came back, smooth and strong as silk. _And I’m on fire, even if she’s Fanalis I could hurt her_ -

: _You will not, my king_.: A mental flick of disapproval, like a hot spark touching his nose. : _My power is yours to command. And you would never command me to harm one you care for_.: A crackle of a laugh. : _Learn from those you love, my king. Be gentle in your strength_.:

_Be gentle_ , Alan thought, glancing at his fire-armored fingers. _I’m not Kouen; I never had his kind of power. But the power I have, is mine. I am the fire, and I choose when to burn_.

Carefully, he leaned into the next stroke. Just a little.

Morgan’s fingers halted. Started another slow stroke, just as carefully. “Is this okay?”

“Mmm.” Alan leaned in, just a little more. Full Equip was so _odd_. He could feel more than just fingers. There was the blood-heat, and the currents of air, and the swirling rukh near and inside her....

_Beautiful_. “It’s nice,” he murmured, warmed by more than fire. “Just - surprised me. Because usually, Djinn, people running screaming....”

“No, they didn’t,” Morgan said firmly. “Not always. I know you remember.”

He did. Sindria’s love for their flamboyant King. Kouha’s misfit soldiers and magicians, sheltering behind their Prince’s giant blade. The confidence of the men and power behind Kouen, before the Empire had been crushed….

“You’re still afraid of what people will expect.” Morgan’s sigh vibrated his ornaments, tickling his ear with a stray strand of fiery hair. “ _No one_ expects Balbadd’s lost prince here. Not even Uncle Tiburon. He knows who you were; he wants to find out who you _are_.” She lifted her head, looking him in the eye. “We all do.”

Alan swallowed dryly. “What if what I am’s not enough?”

“Then you’ll get stronger,” Morgan said simply. “We both will. Because Aladdin is our friend, and we missed him as much as he missed us. I know you felt it too. Turning around, looking for a smile you never saw. Laughing, and listening for a laugh that wasn’t there.”

_Learning to open every door, because behind one of them_ …. “Yeah,” Alan said softly. “I missed him.” He grinned, and shifted to his side, so when he released Equip he wouldn’t have Fanalis-strong pointy elbows breaking his ribs. “So… how do we go pounce _him?_ ”

* * *

“D’awww.” Simon leaned back against the minivan, grinning, as Aladdin fell to the grass in a paired pounce attack. “It’s like having our own little tiger cubs.”

“Siberian tigers,” Ja’far said, half under his breath, almost leaning against Simon’s side.

Malachy eyed the pair of them - so close yet so far - and cast Tiburon an arched brow. _They ought to get over it and cuddle already_.

“Not everyone’s comfortable with a Red Lion’s level of skin contact,” the swordsman said practically. “Especially with Hollywood the way it is these days. Everyone assumes _touching_ implies sex. No wonder you wanted out of there, Simon. When it comes to the important things, you’re sane.”

Simon blinked. “I’m honestly torn between, _‘Of course’_ , and, _‘How dare you call me sane?’_ ”

“You are,” Malachy said steadily. “Didn’t need me out here to watch you play with lightning. What do you want?”

Simon let out a deep sigh, fingers drumming against painted steel. “Help. You’re a father. I’m... not. At least not anytime soon. Alan and Aladdin - they’re very mature, very willing to take care of themselves. But this world’s more complicated than Balbadd, and they _deserve_ someone willing to be a good parent.” He shrugged, honestly rueful. “I’m not asking you to take the job! You’ve got three wild cubs of your own, and damn it, I volunteered. But I could really use advice.”

Malachy thought that over. Nodded once. “First rule. Most important. Love them.”

“That’s not hard,” Simon reflected.

“Wait until they descale a fish right in the middle of your income tax,” Malachy advised. “Second? Very simple. Never tell them to do something you know they _won’t do_.”

“Okay, so it’s a bit like being a director,” Simon said, half to himself. “Which can be highly satisfying at the end of the week, but in between times you’d rather be fighting a dragon. I think I may meep.”

Malachy smirked. “Third. Never assume. Never. When you find them with the car upside-down in a creek, ten gang members smashed through the walls, or a whole bison gutted to roast on the front lawn, the first thing they’ll say is, ‘But you didn’t say we _couldn’t_.’”

“But that’s- um. Er….”

“Long story short,” Ja’far said with great relish, “just imagine what _you_ got into as a kid. And add magic.”

“Oh.” Simon blinked, a little pale. “So that’s what Dad meant.”

Malachy arched a curious brow.

“He always said, ‘I hope you have a dozen kids _just like you_ ’.”

Malachy smiled. Ja’far snickered. Tiburon hugged himself, trying to hold back the cackles. “You poor bastard. Normally they only wish for _one_.”

“Although that is an idea,” Simon mused. “I should call them. Ask for advice.” His voice dropped. “Make sure they’re all right.”

Malachy nodded, sobered. He’d already dropped word into the clan grapevine to be on the lookout for the Shays and their minions. Hopefully the Bostonian magicians wouldn’t be swift to work outside their comfort zone – but the elder Cavins would be possible targets.

But it was Ja’far, of all of them, who shook off the gloom and gave Simon a _look_. “Simon? I love your parents. They’re amazing. But the last time Althea and Barney raised a kid we got _you_.”

Malachy snorted a laugh.

“Given who they had to work with,” Ja’far reflected, “it could have gone _so_ much worse… but have I told you about Alibaba?”

“Obviously, not enough.” Tiburon’s grin was all white teeth. “Let’s get our cubs home for some sleep. Then… I think we need to have a long talk.”

* * *

“So Richard’s still got his head buried in the sand?” Simon leaned back in his own kitchen chair, calculating what it might take to get Ja’far to just throw in the towel and rent an apartment next to his. Maybe with Tiburon a door or so over. Or maybe they could ask Malachy if anyone in the neighborhood might be selling a house. Sharing the same apartment would be too pushy, even he’d admit that; but in the same building? All of them would feel better being near enough for emergencies. “Damn. I would have thought... he’s a lawyer, he’s faced evil in and out of the courthouse. And he’s dealt with law enforcement-” Er. Oops.

Three _looks_ across his kitchen table. Amused green, patient red, and exasperated gray.

“Damn it.” Simon rubbed at a threatening headache. “I hate to say it, but some things were a lot simpler when kings _were_ the law.”

“You don’t want to go back to a time like that,” Malachy said quietly.

“I said it’d be simpler, not better,” Simon admitted. “I guess it didn’t really hit me how out of the ordinary what we’re doing is. At least until I had memories to compare it to. I keep thinking Alan shouldn’t have to deal with _Richard_ on top of everything else... and I guess that’s because when Sinbad was his age, there - wasn’t anyone left to tell him you can’t be responsible for yourself.”

Ja’far flinched a little, and sighed. “I know that mindset. Believe me, I know.”

“So how did you handle it, this time around?” Tiburon leaned forward, curious.

“Badly,” Ja’far bit out. “And it wasn’t the same. _Everyone_ in the Magnos Clan knows we have to hide from the law. Avoiding law enforcement when there’s a magical problem to deal with - it’s what we _do_.”

“Hmm.” Tiburon nodded, eyes dark. “I have to admit I’m not sure how much more we can do, Simon. We know he doesn’t have Alan legally-”

“We _know_ that?” Ja’far pounced.

The swordsman hesitated, and nodded. “Edna and Alan talked a bit on the plane back. I overheard – well. Enough. Part of the reason our good lady was bristling so much was she never expected Alan to land on her, ever. Anne had _all_ the parental rights. Signed, sealed, notarized.”

Simon muttered a few words that would have had Rurumu washing his mouth out with soap. Or worse, giving him a disapproving look. Even a young grumpy assassin had been cowed by the Look. “ _That’s_ why Richard’s not thinking straight. He doesn’t have a legal leg to stand on with Alan, and he knows it.”

“But he wants to protect his boy,” Malachy said quietly. “So he doesn’t want to break the law farther.”

Tiburon raked fingers through his hair, white-blond roots flashing. “At the moment, it doesn’t matter. Until and unless Alan goes through the legal hoops to get himself emancipated here in Florida, there’s not a court in the world who’d take him out of his father’s house.”

“If they did, they’d put him with Child Services,” Malachy agreed. “Disaster.”

Tiburon grimaced. “And bloody how. We _know_ Alan. He’s not quiet, he’s not compliant, and the first time foster care tried to get him to ignore someone else being abused he’d end up arrested. Again.”

Which would be cause for concern, Simon thought, if Richard had actually _done_ anything that hinted he’d treat Alan less than well. So far, he hadn’t.

But when it came to fathers and family, Tiburon had his own scars. Lord Gabriel Alexander St. Claire the Third, former heir to the Most Honorable The Marquess of Oakham, hadn’t died just because he’d disinherited himself and run off to America to become a blade instructor. He’d just been buried, as deep as Tiburon could manage, under a smile, sharp edges, and silence. Put that together with what Ja’far had told Simon that Sinbad’s motley crew had found in Heliohapt, a young prince not sure if he’d be king or slain, who’d become yet another lost soul taking refuge in Sindria-

Well. Ja’far had needed years to stop flinching at some things that resonated with his past life. Given Alan was almost as bad a fit for law as Tiburon had been for politics – no, Simon wasn’t surprised Tiburon was a bit _touchy_.

“Richard isn’t a bad man.” Ja’far stirred his lemonade with a finger, ice clinking against the sides of his cup. “I’ve seen bad parents. He’s not horrible. Just-” The ex-assassin sighed. “He’s a rooster trying to raise a golden eagle. He means well. It’s just not going to work the way he thinks.” A thin, vicious smile. “I think Alan’s lucky, though. Edna’s a bit more... practical.”

_And how_ , Simon thought. “So you think she’ll poke him into developing a good framework for beginning magical laws?”

“I gave her what Ja’far’s written down of Magnos Clan customs for a starting point before we left,” Tiburon nodded. “Including the penalties for attempted love potions. Because you _know_ some of our kids will get that idea.”

“Love potions.” Ja’far rolled his eyes. “A skilled magician can invoke some of the physical symptoms of infatuation. Sweaty palms, racing heart, blushing; you can make someone have all of that, if you put in enough power. But magic can’t make you love someone.”

“Madaura’s Holy Mother Fan,” Tiburon said dryly.

“…Damn it.” Ja’far looked like he wanted to stab something. More than usual. “Psychological and neurological manipulation, from what Alibaba described later…. I don’t think anyone’s up to creating that kind of Magic Tool anytime soon. And that wasn’t unbreakable. Our three proved that.” His fingers rubbed across his sleeves, as if he wanted to draw Bararaq Sei and let fly. “I should have killed Mariadel for what she did to Sinbad. Before she ever picked up a new name. It would have saved a lot of grief in the long run.”

_But how badly would it have hurt you?_ Simon wanted to ask. Though – not now. He didn’t want to pry at wounds unhealed from a lifetime ago, not with company here. Even Malachy and Tiburon might be too much.

Not to mention that had been a grimace of understanding from Tiburon, and that did not bode well at all. “You don’t think we should have left the Shays alive,” Simon reflected. “We couldn’t just kill them in cold blood.”

“I could have,” Tiburon said under his breath. “But given Biegen saw our faces, and who knows what other evidence didn’t get incinerated - no, practically, we couldn’t. Damn it to hell.”

Malachy rested a hand on top of Tiburon’s arm on the table, fingers kneading restless muscles. “Problem?”

“Part of the problem,” Tiburon said reluctantly. “Alan… well. He may claim to be just a kid from the back alleys, but he is a prince, heart and soul. He knows how to put up a mask. And he’s done his best to convince his father he’s fine, nothing really bad happened, everything’s solved now.” The swordsman paused, one hiss of pure frustration. “ _Alan is not fine_.”

_Damn_. “Tell me,” Simon requested.

“It could have been worse,” Tiburon shrugged. “From what he’s told me, what Sarah says happened - they barely laid a hand on him. It could have been much, _much_ worse.” He took a deep sip of iced lemon. “But they put him in a situation that could have killed him, and he knew it. Worse, they made other innocents _watch_. That… doesn’t go away. Not overnight. Not even for someone as tough as Alan.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Simon said soberly. “Remind me to tell you how jumpy I was after Ja’far first pulled me out of… a very bad situation. There were Russian mobsters involved. And blood.” And he’d decided right then and there that forget the cameras, forget the damn adrenaline-pumping _interesting opportunities_ for filming; he _had_ to be more careful. Because some of that blood had been Ja’far’s, and the magician hadn’t even _cared_ , blood was nothing so long as his friend was alive….

His own blood didn’t scare Simon. Ja’far’s? He’d been _terrified_.

_I found him; I found him after so long, when I didn’t even know I’d been looking. I couldn’t bear the thought of being alone again_.

“It takes time to smooth off the sharp edges, after a shock like that,” Simon went on. “But it’s easier if you’re not alone. And Alan’s already being dragged over hill and dale by two of the most loyal friends in the world. He’ll do better than any shrink could ever dream. He’s not alone.” Simon gave the swordsman a warm smile. “We’re not alone.”

Green eyes blinked at him, wide and surprised, before Tiburon dropped his gaze, fingers tracing drops of condensation on the glass.

_Hit a sore spot_. Simon tried not to wince. _Well, at least I hit it on purpose. This isn’t Heliohapt, and he’s not getting chased out of it. He’s home. We’re home_. “Of course, parkouring all over the coast with a Fanalis and a curious magi could drive a shrink to drink in completely new and different ways. Especially if they find the dragon. I’ve heard some very odd rumors from our local firefighters.” Simon raised a deliberate brow. “You don’t think they’d go out after brushfires to find the dragon, do you?”

“I don’t think Alan would do anything that reckless,” Tiburon finally smiled. “Not without calling us first, this time.” He took a breath. “But I do think it’s a good thing you made ‘Dungeon Monitor’ an official title.”

“Well, of course,” Simon said practically. “It’s just like any production. A go-fer gets stuck with any job. A grip can tell someone who wants him to make coffee to go to hell. No one’s going into a Dungeon if they don’t understand there are official limits on what a Dungeon Monitor is expected to drag them out of. Anything less than that, a careless student is just going to have to take their lumps and suffer the bandages.”

“Good,” Tiburon nodded. “Because Alan needs to hit things. And we can’t get him to relax and _not_ be responsible. The only way to let him take a break is to put him into situations where he can trust his friends to watch his back. Situations where he knows other people trust _him_. And they’re not watching for the next thing he’ll do that they don’t approve of.”

“Lawful Good versus Chaotic Good always is a mess when the fight’s over,” Simon observed. “The paladins and wizards keep harping about _law_ while the rangers and sorcerers are trying to sneak out the back door of the orc’s den… what?”

“Richard the Paladin.” From Ja’far’s pink face, he was desperately trying not to laugh. “That’s… closer than you know. Let me tell you what Rashid did for us all once, by just showing up to have a drink with a friend….”

* * *

_Mother, Father, Svitlana,_

_This year at Hancock promises to be even more interesting (if potentially life-threatening) than the last. The energetic upswing the clan has noticed appears to be an accelerating trend, at least in the local vicinity. Exposure to the concentration accessible here has had... side effects. I’ve enclosed photos so you can judge for yourself._

_Yes, those are freckles. Simon has declared them cute. I haven’t stabbed him. Yet._

_Photo #2 is our current physics teacher; Mr. Stafford is on sabbatical, for his health. (Mental health. No, it was not Simon’s fault. This time.) I find that ironic, given I strongly suspect Stafford may be a reincarnation of Matal Mogamett. But then, some things are best left buried._

_If you would look into any rumors or history of an alchemist known as Callimachus, I would appreciate it. I think he’s had enough exposure to our local Kings to have had some of the venomous edges taken off, but we would all appreciate more information._

_Yes, I said Kings. Simon has a protégé._

_(If you let the Elders read this, you probably want to leave your earplugs in for at least the first five minutes of hysteria. Or until after you tell them it could be worse. Seriously, of all the souls that could have been reborn into this age....)_

_Photo #3 shows the King and part of his current Household. Or maybe all of it at the moment; we’re not sure if any of the little ones he rescued will feel compelled to follow him personally. You’ve met Simon, so you can probably guess - he’s the young man getting hugged from both sides in his sleep._

_You can probably also guess the young lady is a Red Lioness. Meaning you’re probably wondering about... Simon’s nephew._

_(Blue hair. Anyone would believe he was Simon’s nephew. Hopefully, anyone will.)_

_I would love to have a very long talk with you about this boy. For now - see the attached diagrams and components list. Along with the estimated power requirements. It’s not easy, but it_ works.

_Also note that the “buffer” can be activated as a stand-alone on someone who has already passed the Clan’s adulthood rite. I don’t know of anyone else who reacted as badly as I did, but it... really helped smooth over some painful edges. I’m doing much better lately. Though part of that may just be reduced stress, given I now have some help in Simon-wrangling._

_I’d like you to meet that help._

_I will admit here and now that I have ulterior motives. Simon intends to expand a certain set of elective study options. For now, we’re calling them “nonstandard physics”. But at the moment Hancock only has two people qualified to teach the, er,_ higher math _portion. Simon and Tiburon can teach the applied biofeedback techniques, and the young King actually knows a fair amount of both - at least the theories behind it, even if his own application can be shaky._

_In short, we need more teachers. And you managed to get these critical life skills through my skull, even when we all knew I was starting from scratch. Would you be interested in a visit, to consider it?_

_I’ll also admit to a second ulterior motive. I know whose birthday is coming up, and... I don’t want Svitlana to hurt the way I did._

_Your grateful son and brother,_

_Ja’far Zmiinyi Zvezdilin_

_P.S.: Be careful opening Simon’s enclosure. He won’t let me see everything that’s in it. Says you deserve a surprise. The mind reels._

_P.P.S.: And Alan added his own note. That one should be safe._ I think.

* * *

_Mr. and Mrs. Zvezdilin,_

_The enclosed documents ought to be enough to let all of you get visas. I’ve put your job category down as - well, roughly, traditional ethnic art instructors. After all, if what you do doesn’t count as an Intangible Cultural Heritage, what does?_

_I know the thought of coming to a new country is not one to be considered lightly. People, customs, climate - everything is different here. And I won’t deny that_ Chernobyl _is not a word to be casually tossed into conversation here, any more than it is in the Ukraine._

_But if it comes up, it is different here. When your countrymen hear the name, they remember the Soviets, and lies, and death; and all your clan is tainted with that brush. When Americans hear it - we think of a_ horrible accident.

_I know, I know; it’s far more complicated than that. But that’s what most of us think. We wouldn’t blame anyone from being from Chernobyl any more than we’d blame them for being from Fukushima, or Three Mile Island. You were there; you survived._

_Americans are incredibly fond of survivors._

_I could ramble on for hours about how much help your son has been, and how we all rely on him, but they say a picture is worth a thousand words. So - be amazed. Ja’far finally figured out a way to make me stay put._

_\- Simon Cavins_

Nestled into the packets of documents was a glossy photo. The golden light of late afternoon slanted in through a window edged with green drapes; shimmering over subtle black diamonds in the fabric, casting highlights on various odd chests and wardrobes, and lightening the plushy green doll of a cactuar with a glass of tequila sitting on a high shelf next to ninja climbing claws.

In the lower third of the photo was a somewhat threadbare tan couch, obviously mended with scraps of glittery costume fabric and possibly fishing line after sharp objects had poked and slashed it. And lying on the couch was a very bemused actor and principal in white and violet robes, purple hair loose and straying off the arm of couch as he lifted his head to look at the immovable weight holding him down.

Wrapped in Sindrian robes, Ja’far was curled up like a green-and-white cat, sound asleep.

* * *

_Mr. & Mrs. Zvezdilin, Svitlana Zvezdilin,_

_Ja’far’s saved my life, more than once. I hope I can do as much for him. And he’s a really cool teacher. So... most of what I want to say, I can’t put in a letter. I just wanted you to know, even if you just decide to visit, we’ll be glad to see you._

_\- Alan Ryans_

* * *

“Okay, this definitely qualifies as weird.” Prescott polished his glasses, put them back on to glance over the wrecked, empty tennis courts. Empty of everything except the whole school population; there wasn’t a student who wanted to miss this. “The tower is creepy and scary and _trying to kill you_ \- and we all want it back.” He shook his head. “Are we as crazy as the principal?”

“We’re here, aren’t we?” Michaela grinned at him, turning a long hunk of beautiful wood in her hands; pale tan and pink, streaked with darker brown. “Sugar maple,” she said at Alan’s curious eyebrow. “I looked it up - people use it in recurve bows because it’s strong and stiff. That should make a good wand, right?”

“It should,” Aladdin nodded, trying to look sober and respectable and dignified. “Though I haven’t really made too many wands yet... but it’s always good to have one you can hit people over the head with!”

Not fooled, Alan gripped Aladdin’s right shoulder as they stood in the rubble, letting Morgan hang onto his left. Because sure, Dungeon-raising was going to be awesome magic and something Aladdin ought to know how to do – but there was a fine line between close enough to watch and close enough to get rocks falling on your head.

Granted, Simon was likely to dance right across it. Which was why Ja’far and Tiburon were hanging onto _him_. Drakon and Malachy were both busy keeping their kids contained – harder for Drakon than the martial artist, Matt was as slippery as an eel and twice as squeaky.

At least Shionne and Sarah had seemed to hit it off, if the shared amused grins at their boys were any indication. That and the plans for building barbecue pits on school grounds.

_The better to get fresh-cooked monster_ , Alan grinned. “I wonder if any of Baal’s treasure has cookbooks in it?”

Standing by the shattered rim where Baal’s tower had first erupted, Yunan gave him a wounded look.

“What?” Alan said innocently. “Maharagans are _great_. How could we not have festival food?”

Shaking his head, Yunan raised his green-leafed wand, and looked upward.

_Huh. I was expecting something flashy_.

It didn’t look like a major spell at all. Just a thickening of the rukh, until even the football players could see the silvery light, focusing _down_ and _through_ -

Stone erupted, streaking for the sky.

Yunan sighed, as Baal’s tower rumbled into place, ball lightning flickering at the tip, vine-sculpted stone solid as if it’d been there forever. “I’m not sure how well this is going to work, Simon. I think we can keep it stable, dungeons are meant to stand as long as they’re needed, but if you mean it to remain without its Djinn you’re going to have to bring Baal back inside once in a while to check on the dungeon-”

Whatever else he meant to say was drowned out by cheers.

Morgan patted Aladdin’s shoulder, relieved. “It worked.”

Alan frowned, noting that the magi wasn’t moving. Was staring, actually, at the flow of rukh about otherworldly stone that Alan knew he only half-saw. “Something wrong?”

“I was just thinking.” Aladdin stared at ornamented stone, gaze fixed on the star-shimmer of the gate. “If we can reach through reality to call a tower here all the way from Alma Torran, do you think we could…?”

Alan listened. Halfway through the jumble of words, whipped out his pad and started taking notes. Because some of this he remembered, and some of this Yunan ought to know, and if they got this right-

_Please let this work. There’s somebody we all want to see_.

* * *

_I hope Aladdin’s alright_. Ugo let his little creatures help prop him up as he limped across the sanctuary. Pulling himself together this time wasn’t taking nearly so long as it had after Judar’s attack all those millennia ago. Then again, this time he might not have a few spare centuries to draw his scattered rukh back into one form. Aladdin was out there, possibly still in the hands of enemies. Amon had not returned. And the few messages he’d gotten from Baal’s dungeon had been terse and confusing-

Shimmering rukh-birds scattered, as if blown by a sudden wind.

Ugo frowned, watching light bloom into a shining circle. Whatever that was, wasn’t made by his power. If that was Callimachus again, the enemy was about to find out the hard way how far a Djinn out-powered a magician-

“Ugo!”

His heart melted. Ugo cupped a hand around one edge of that mirror-light from elsewhere, seeing it shimmer into familiar faces. “Aladdin.” Well, and whole, and smiling at him in pure relief. With a familiar fierce redhead on one side, a blond with Amon’s aura on the other, and looking over all their shoulders.... “The men behind you look very familiar, young magi.”

“Simon Cavins, in this life, sir.” That familiar soul smiled at him, Baal’s aura a faint crackle of sparks in his own. “With your permission, I’d like to stand as Aladdin’s guardian until he’s eighteen. The country we’re in tends to get a bit touchy about teenagers wandering around without a supposedly sane adult to be held accountable.”

“He’s okay, Ugo.” Aladdin’s blue eyes were bright with joy. “We’re all okay.” Reaching out, he hugged his friends. “They’re okay, and I know what you did for them, and _thank you_.”

“It was the least I could do, for good friends,” Ugo nodded. _Alibaba and Morgiana. So the shield-and-bind on rukh-fragments does work. Thank Solomon_.

“Amon says the last-ditch plan worked out okay,” Alibaba put in. “Though from me? It could use a few tweaks. If anybody else has to use it again. I really hope not.”

“I can’t hold this long,” Ja’far warned, hands glimmering at one edge of the image. “We have power, but it’s like trying to juggle dishes and baby crocodiles. And no, Simon, I’m not doing that for your film.”

“Aww....”

“Is it okay?” Aladdin asked. “If they look after me for you? I don’t know how often we can set up an Eye of Rukh like this, but... we’re going to try to make sure you’re not left alone again.”

“It’s more than okay, little magi,” Ugo said softly. “Knowing you are well - everything is okay.”

“Yeah, but - Alan said you probably read all those books while I was sleeping. And we’ve got a way to fix that!” Aladdin bounced in the image, picking up a very strange open box of some kind of brown material-

Ugo felt the shimmer of space and time, and held out a hand to catch the little thing that fell through the light. “What is this?”

“Electronic books!” Aladdin grinned. “So... be careful with Lightning and Heat magic with it, okay?”

“We wrote up a manual in the best Tran and Common we could put together.” Alibaba - no, _Alan_ now - shrugged. “And we got the best Proto-Indo-European to English dictionary out there to add to it, so I’m kind of hoping you can figure out how to translate it yourself. Aladdin says you can change size if you want, so... have some word-puzzles!”

New books. Books in an entirely different language he’d have to learn, but still. _New books_.

“And I put in a letter, and some pictures, and-” Aladdin gulped, looking at the strain on Ja’far’s face. “I promise we’ll see you again. I promise!”

“I know you will, little Aladdin.” Ugo smiled, even as the spell winked out. “I know you will.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Madaura = Mariadel = argh, various transliterations… not to mention she apparently changed her name between the two series anyway….  
> https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/U%C5%A1umgallu  
> So far as I know, we have no idea what race Belial was prior to becoming a Djinn. This critter looked like it had all the lion-dragon type characteristics Belial does have, it’s kind of cool, and it’s associated with kings. (Plus Final Fantasy XIII apparently recently came out with a version of that as one of their monsters, and yowza. That’s definitely a Magi-verse level critter!)  
> (Search for Ušumgallu on Google for a pic. The vid link I found keeps freezing a few seconds in, so that was no help.)  
> In RL, there is no Marquess of Oakham.


End file.
